


A Game of Thrones and Magic

by Quintus_Plenitudo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dragons, Eventual Romance, F/M, High Fantasy, Magic, Mostly book based, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R Plus L Equals J, Sexual Content, Warging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 76,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22132129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quintus_Plenitudo/pseuds/Quintus_Plenitudo
Summary: Things change in the Game of Thrones as Jon Snow is forced south, haunted by visions and a power he can't fully understand.Down in the South, the lords and ladies plots, characters take new risks and new paths are opened to those brave and cunning enough to take them.Far to the North, the Others stir as the men of the Night's Watch prepare for an event they know little of.Far to the East, dragons sing their songs once more but will their legacy last or crumble to dust.Basically, Bloodraven looks into the future and decides that he can't allow the situation to become so dire so he decides to intervene. And the person he targets reminds him very much of himself.Well, once you get rid of the honour.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jon Snow & Robb Stark, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Robert Baratheon/Cersei Lannister
Comments: 70
Kudos: 160





	1. And So it Begins

**Jon Snow**

_“North!”_

  
_“North!!”_

  
_“Look North, boy!”_

  
His eyes snapped open and he sat up with a cry and a gasp, the gasp carried on and turned into a fit of heaving and coughing as the voice rang like a bell in and around his head. The voices drowned out the sound of his dry coughs and left him dazed and confused.

  
_“North! Look North! North!”_

  
They continued on and on, unchanging in either volume or subject. He groaned in pain and covered his ears, finding that that did not help in the slightest bit. It wanted him to look North, Jon knew, so he looked and found a new predicament that he had not been seeking.

  
 _I’m not in my room,_ he realized and the deafening echoes stopped as suddenly as they had begun. The bizarre and slightly unsettling voice having gone away, he turned his attention back to his surroundings. Gone was Winterfell, with its high walls and guards, maids and cooks, stone towers and warm chambers and in its stead was white. Above a large, vast field covered by snow was a great dome of fog and mist. So thick was the fog that he could scarcely see twenty paces ahead of him and so thick was the snow that it failed to crack under his weight.  
This was the North, Jon was sure of that. Only this far north could snowfall be so thick yet he was unsure over the fog. He had never encountered nor heard of such dense mist combing through the North. Occasionally, when he awoke earlier than his siblings and wandered the castle walls, he would bear witness to mist drifting off the treetops of the Wolfswood. Yet, that always occurred before the sun had risen high in the sky.

  
Spinning, Jon gazed intently towards his visible horizon, seeking anything of note in this winter hell that Jon was sure to be one of the seven hells Septa Mordane was always preaching about. Was that how he had arrived here, he pondered, had he died and been sent to a wintery hell reserved only for Northron bastards. Though if it was hell, it made for a poor one as Jon could not feel the cold, something he found exceedingly queer given that he was missing his cloak. _And my weapons,_ he noticed with furrowed brows.

  
Lost in thought, he almost missed the faint yellow and orange shape that had made its home not far from where he stood but still obscured by drifting tendrils of mist. Walking over, he found it unsettling to leave no footprints in the snow but he ignored it and fixed his attention back to the coloured shape. He recognized it as a daffodil immediately as they grew in Winterfell’s glass gardens. Its stem jutted out from the frozen snow and the yellow petals surrounded the orange center, making it seem as though the petals had been assailants that had finally caught up with their victim. It had already bloomed although the how of it was unanswered for it was the dead of winter here.

  
Similar to how he’d gotten here was unanswered as well.

  
Racking his mind, he recalled riding back to Winterfell. They had ridden out to execute a deserter from the Night's Watch and Bran had come along for the first time. Riding back to the castle, Robb and him had raced ahead and found a litter of direwolves in the snow and Jon had convinced his Lord Father to accept the newborn pups. He could recall riding back to the keep and passing through the Hunters Gate to bypass Winter Town. Closing his eyes now, he desperately searched his mind for what happened afterward. Yet. all he could remember was riding past the kennels into the courtyards, light snow flurrying and his cloak billowing softly behind him.

  
Had he been kidnapped? Yet that did not explain his lapse in memory furthermore if he had been, where were his captors? Surely they would not have left him alone with no cloak in what seemed to be winter conditions. If he had been taken from Winterfell, had they hurt someone else in their endeavour? Were Robb, Arya, Bran, and the others well? Had his father sent riders to search for him? _Why am I here? Where are my captors, surely they wouldn’t have just left me? Is everyone else safe? Why was_ I _taken? I’m only a bastard._

  
Surely, he wasn’t taken from Winterfell itself - _If_ I was taken, he repeated- yet that was the last thing he could recall.

  
For a brief, fleeting moment, he wondered whether the Lady Stark had a role in his plight but he brushed the idea aside as soon as he had conjured it up. They had shared the same castle for fourteen years and not once had she punished him. All his punishments and discipline he had received from Old Nan or a nursemaid. Lady Stark had never been overly cruel either, only neglectful. She hadn't had a role in this if only for the sake of his father, he rationalized.

  
The shrill screech, however, he couldn't rationalize. High, inhuman, and deafening it was, like cracking ice, driving Jon to his knees and forcing his hands back over his ears, making the boy wince in pain and causing goosebumps to appear. It went on for minutes - _seconds, rather_ \- before it simply ended, as unannounced as it had begun. Jon took his hands away cautiously, body tense with fear of the shriek continuing or worse the beast that had cast it, coming his way. Only a monster could cry out like that, he thought, his fear pressing down on him from each side.

  
He stood up stiffly, eyes raking each direction, trying to spot whether or not the monster was coming. Not that it would have made any difference. His line of sight extended to just twenty paces in each direction and a monster with the ability to screech like that would surely be too quick, large, and … monstrous … to outrun even if he had been afforded a league of distance. Which he had not been. Yet despite the monster having been thankfully silenced, a deep foreboding feeling washed over Jon, telling him it was time to leave. Yet it dawned on him the moment he turned, a fact that caused the boy to swear quietly and set him looking over his shoulders.

  
Jon didn’t know which way to go.

  
Each direction he looked was the same, vast and barren, the only color being the white of the snow and the gray of the fog. Even the daffodil had disappeared, gone alongside wind, swallowed up by the boundless fog and the frozen snow. There was no knowing which was North or South, West or East. The sky and stars were swallowed by the gray gloom, the Sun and the Moon the following suit. Truth be told, he couldn't even make out whether it was day or night, it simply looked unlike either. He glanced in every direction, desperately hoping for anything of significance and received a faint sound of wings flapping.

  
Flapping wings? Jon thought bemusedly, twisting his head to search for a winged creature. He glanced each direction again before looking up to see a black-feathered bird fluttering above him, mayhaps thirty feet high and largely obscured by the fog. The bird looked scruffy even from a distance but also huge, with long, black wings allowing it to descend slowly in a spiral trail towards him. The lower it descended, he realized it was a raven. He recognized its beak and its wedge-shaped tail from his studies with Maester Luwin.

  
Jon creased his brows, puzzled as to what a bird was doing in this vast and cold expanse lacking in trees to nest on. Figuring that it would have been equivalent to the sea for any creature blessed with wings. Besides the cold should have been enough driven it south, towards Dorne and the Reach yet here it was. He followed the raven’s trail downwards. It was mayhaps twenty feet above him now and free from the mist. It descended steadily. Silent as a shadowcat and just as menacing. The bird seemed to eye him and as it lowered he could make out the black, beady eyes, never blinking, seemingly the entrance to an endless pit of aged happiness and regrets. A well of memories. Beckoning him to fall in and immerse himself in a time long past.

  
Only the talons aimed for his eyes kept him from falling into the pit.

  
He jerked out of the hypnotic trance just as the raven flew in, talons extended. Jon scrambled backwards and raised both his arms to his face, to shield himself, falling flat on his back in the process. The talons had grazed past his sleeves. He hadn’t been able to break his fall and the frozen snow knocked out his wind. Groaning and with plain shock written on his pale face, he peeked through his forearms, attempting to find his attacker but the stupid bird had beaten him again. It landed on his forearms, talons digging into his sleeve while flapping his wings for balance.

  
Fear having grasped him by his jaw, Jon froze for a blink of a moment before screaming and swinging his arms to throw the raven off. The bird’s talons released its grasp on the boy’s arms and fluttered over several feet backwards to land on the hard grass. Jon had turned on his stomach and pushed himself back onto his feet, ready to bolt.

  
“No.”

  
He stopped before he had begun. His feet ingrained themselves to the frozen earth. One word. One simple word and he felt it. An aged and omniscient power. Deep and earthy it felt, like the roots of a weirwood tree, thousands of years old; and ever-growing. Jon felt oddly at ease, he felt… safe. The power the word possessed had flowed through his body and he felt… peace and … harmony. Nothing could harm him now, he believed earnestly.

  
 _Your sleeves,_ a soft voice whispered to him. The boy brought his arms up and saw no talon scratches, no rips. He turned around calmly to face the raven he thought to be hostile and saw it standing still on the grass. It was observing him closely, its black beady eyes didn't move and the seemingly endless pit faced him again. Entrancing and enticing, Jon fell in.

  
And came back out in a moment’s blink. He jolted and blinked rapidly. Trying to remember what he had seen, where he had gone. The feeling of security melted away like summer snows and dread sank back in his bones as the raven started its strut which was punctuated by several two-footed hops. It began to peck the snow, like a chicken, while muttering for corn.

  
While he found a raven asking for corn strange, he found his lapse in memory to be even stranger and truth be told, disturbing. The black well of memories had drawn him in and shared something. He could remember going places, many places where he hadn’t had the fortune to visit before and meeting many people, some who had been very strange to him. Yet, he couldn’t recall anything.

  
Jon found that to be queer. Truth be told, he found all of this strange. His awakening here rather than Winterfell and the vast field covered by unyielding snow. The high and sudden screech that had left him shaking and on the floor; the raven's apparent hostility. The lapse in memory which he was sure to be the raven’s work but most of all it was the damn fog he found strangest.

  
It felt like Old Nan's tales of the Long Night and the Age of Heroes had returned but as reality rather than a story. Robb, Theon and he had always laughed at the tales then when it had been just that, tales. They had always boasted that they would have done the heroic and honorable thing had they been there. That they would have saved the fair maiden and slain the beast, casting its soul to all seven hells. But here dread sank deep into the bones and doubt seeped into his mind. His limbs felt like stone, stiff and heavy, and the suffocating, gloomy atmosphere that threatened to swallow everything whole refused to leave.

  
The heroic and honorable thing to do here would be to not collapse.

  
The screech ripped through the air again although it was different this time. It was just as piercing and deafening as before but felt farther away and lower in volume. Jon didn’t drop to the frozen ground again nor did he cover his ears but he did wince aloud and his body seemed to shake harder than before.

  
The raven didn’t seem affected at all. It cut its strut short and cocked the small head the gods had fashioned it at the shriek. It stretched its wings and flapped over to him, causing Jon to jump out of his skin when its talons clasped his shoulder.

  
He swiveled his head around, struck with the bird's audacity, and received a low squawk to the face for his trouble. It then twisted his head around and faced towards the right, away from him. Jon looked past the raven with trepidation, wondering what it was that the bird had noticed.

  
The fog had cleared in a queer manner, he noted immediately. Before it had kept him as the center, not allowing Jon to see anything beyond twenty paces but now the fog had cleared enough to allow him to see near a long way away. But only for that side, the others remained opaque in the smoky fog.

  
In the far distance, which Jon believed to be farther than a league, he could see where the opening ended. The mist was curtained by an imperceptible wall, straight as an arrow, rising to the heavens. He glanced back at the raven, who sat on his shoulder, still as a corpse, peering towards the vast path. He wondered whether it could claim some responsibility. It had already taken him on a journey and taken his memories of the journey. Before Jon could brood on the matter, a sharp, bitingly cold wind came from where the fog had cleared and for the first time since he had awoken, he needed a cloak. He squinted his eyes and peered closely at the opening, more specifically the end of it and felt his breath leave his body.

  
The palest of shadows had emerged, still silhouetted by the thick haze the land provided. Despite the distance, Jon could not only see but feel the magnitude of the monster. He could feel as well as see the wings that were as tall as Winterfell’s inner walls. The monster’s height was of such size that Jon could barely distinguish its head from the fog. Indeed the monster’s head seemed to be lost in the sky, high above. The neck’s length alone looked a mile long.

  
 _No, not just any monster. Its a dragon!_ His jaw fell open, with equal awe and terror at the size and implication.

  
The dragon’s head lowered, sounds like that of ice breaking reached his ears as the neck coiled like a rope. Lower and lower the neck wound. A cold blast of air sent his dull brown hair whipping back and made his teeth clatter loudly. Even the raven had trouble, flapping his wings hard against the strong wind and croaking.

  
Eyes squinted, his body refused to move as the wind picked up and speared through his body. He raised his arms to cover his face as small debris flew into his face, stinging it in the process. He peeked through his arms, somehow still curious as to what the dragon’s intention was and he saw not the monster as tall as the sky but the fog, rushing at him, tendrils slithering out towards him.

  
“Way. Way.” The raven shrieked over the sharp wind. Jon looked towards the bird with wide and desperate eyes. The raven repeated himself several times before flapping up and flying away from the incoming fog; following the wind. Jon didn’t hesitate to follow. Knowing that the bird would be trying to survive as well, just like him. He first staggered in the same direction, feeling no shame in fleeing with his tail tucked between his legs after all he was fleeing from a dragon. He soon started running as hard as he could, the snow surprisingly not slippery, remembering his father’s advice to always keep moving if they were ever caught in a snowstorm.

  
 _You must be moving, always, lest your blood freeze_. He remembered Theon had made some stupid joke but his Father’s Lord face had silenced him quickly enough.

  
The wind whistled in his ears as he ran, following the raven who stayed back enough for Jon to see his wedge-shaped tail. Every now and then the raven would cry out but the wind swallowed the words just like the mist threatened to swallow him. He ran harder and harder. Legs burning at the exertion and lungs heaving hard and sweat running cold on his skin. He did not dare look back for fear that the smoky vines would overtake him or worse the dragon would be on the chase.

  
And to make matters worse, the dragon screeched once more. His skin crawled and his entire body sagged from both dismay and fatigue. Yet strangely, the frozen snow had given ground to green grass. It was slippery and wet with dew, causing Jon to slip and fall hard to the ground. The boy crashed hard with his knees but his hands came up to stop the same fate from occurring to his face. The once frozen snow was now muddy and his clothes were splashed with it. His hands stung from the impact and his knees flared with pain.

  
Jon tried to stumble to his feet and keep on running but his feet slipped in the mud and he landed on his knees again. Bringing a cry from him. He had run a great distance and his lungs agreed along with his legs. Heaving and coughing, eyes dazed, he sat upon the soil that was wet with dew and rain and faced the way he had come. His eyes glanced up. Ready to see certain doom.

  
Instead, he found trees.

  
 _No. A forest._ He thought, eyes raking over the firs, black briers, and soldier pines. He rose to his feet quickly, doubting that he had outrun his unnatural pursuers and looked all around. The forest was dark, the sky held little light, making Jon believe it to be dusk. The canopy was an overgrown mass of branches from what seemed to be dozens of trees. They had spread and intertwined like vines and moss would on stone. Through the gaps, he could see a bruised sky, free of clouds.

  
Damp, rotting leaves littered the forest floor, giving off a rich, earthy aroma. The scent was intoxicating and Jon took huge gasps, finding that it was refreshing. Gnarly roots from all trees had crept through the ground, some were thick others not so much. He spotted a sentinel, its thick trunk sticky with sweet sap and near it an especially bulbous and knotted tree.

  
Jon steadied himself on a tree with a hard, black bark. Gazing past the trees, he sought any signs of smoky gray vines yet found none. His relief was almost palpable and his breaths steadied as did his legs. He gazed at his new surroundings and believed them to be sultry and oppressive though Jon could not tell. The atmosphere did not affect him yet that did not stop his body from sweating profusely. Sweat made his clothes cling to his back and had him feeling sticky and unclean although he believed the latter feeling to be mostly the fault of the mud his clothes were splattered in. He turned his attention to the tree he was grasping and peered at it closer, realizing startlingly that it was an ironwood.

  
Confusion ran through his mind as exhaustion slowly filtered out. Ironwood shields, doors, hafts and so on could be found from Oldtown to King’s Landing and all over the Free Cities of Essos. Yet, ironwoods only grew in the North, making it a valuable export for Northmen. Seeing the ironwood confirmed to him that it was indeed the North. He looked away, all thoughts of dragons and endless, drifting mist forgotten, and back at the forest, gazing much more closely at the trees. He walked around, looking at all kinds of trees. Evergreens, sentinels, oaks, chestnuts, and hawthorns. He touched roots as old as Westeros, forded a stream overflowing from recent rain, and even heard a wolf howling in the distance.

  
It was the Wolfswood.

  
He let a laugh spill from his lips and breathed out in even more relief. It was the Wolfswood, filled with hunters and crofters and many of his Father’s bannermen. It was the Wolfswood, large and wild, difficult to travel through alone for most men let alone a boy. It was the Wolfswood, teeming with bears and wolves and thieves, he thought as his smile drooped and he huffed, irritated greatly by his dilemma.

  
He trudged back towards the stream he had forded, reasoning to following its path. Streams meant freshwater and freshwater attracted smallfolk. _Smallfolk means brigands and bandits_ , a voice cautioned, but Jon pushed aside those thoughts. Northmen were honest and plain, they lived straightforward lives and would rather reveal their thoughts on you rather than put on a false smile. Aside from that, the North had few bandits and brigands; his Lord Father and his staunch bannermen saw to that.

  
Reaching the stream, he slipped slightly on the muddy bank yet he paid it no mind as his eyes were struck with the sight of the stream, bone-dry.

  
Jon stepped closer, wiggling his boot free with little effort. He crouched down, the now inky black sky making it an arduous task to see well but still, the mud cracks were visible. Wide and deep they cut criss-cross through the bed but the banks had remained muddy. Jon was sure that this was the same stream. Although last he had passed, the current washed up to his hips and that had been at a shallow point. Here, the current would have undoubtedly run above his shoulders, had there been a current of course.

  
A sudden gust of cold air swept over his face, stinging his eyes and reminding him of the dragon and the boundless fog. He rose from his crouched position, wondering whether he would have to escape from the mist and a dragon again. Blood rushed to his knees then and they were both engulfed in a queer pain. The boy shook it off and stared towards the wind, his eyes blinking hard.

  
On a small ascent, he bore witness to a queer sight that one would commonly not call abnormal. There stood what appeared to be a great stag with equally great antlers but with too short a body and even stranger, shorter hind legs. It had too short a body to match such great antlers but Jon brushed it aside to the light. The Wolfswood had grown dark and he was only guessing by its silhouette.

  
The harsh wind eased without warning and his hair fell into his eyes. He shook his head and brushed his long hair back. It was longer than he remembered it to be. Falling to his shoulders and almost touching his collarbone rather than resting just below his ears as it should have.

  
Having tamed his hair, he turned his attention back to the queer stag, still standing. It unnerved Jon, and the boy inside him considered backing away while his wits told him to also back off but out of precaution rather than fear. Stags were wild animals and they could become very aggressive. If it decided to give chase, Jon would not be able to escape, his best option would be to climb a tall tree and wait.

  
Before he could slowly back off, the stag’s hind legs turned and walked away.

  
Jon blinked hard, not understanding what had occurred up there, convinced the dim lights were playing tricks on his eyes. Rustling sounds behind him drew his eyes away. Turning he saw trees bending and twisting away from each other, seemingly repulsed and repelled from their neighbors. Bushes violently shook and branches rattled and smashed against one another. Roots slithered across the ground like snakes and leaves were blown away by gusts of strong wind. A trail had opened, the forest having been parted like drapes down the middle and at the end and a hundred paces from him, stood a large raven, shrieking for corn.

  
Eyes wide as saucers and mouth gaping, Jon stood there like a fool. The raven squawked, "Way. Way", loud enough for Jon to hear even from his distance. The words filled him with comfort, odd as it may seem, Jon trusted the raven. It had led him to the forest, away from the monster and the mist. It had helped him before, why not now?

  
He turned back, towards the ascent where the stag had stood, still curious over its intent. Wondering if the hind legs had truly walked away, separate from the remaining body or if it had simply been his eyes fooling him.

  
The beast was gone. The slight incline it rested on now only held wet leaves and moist soil. He faced away and gave it not much thought. All animals roamed the forest, he thought, and the stag had just been interested. Perhaps it had never encountered a man before. It was a plausible idea, the Wolfswood covered a vast space across the North and the North had never been very populated. Although that did not explain the apparition with the hind legs.

  
He walked down the path, observing the trees as he did. They were pulled back and taut, he saw. Like a slingshot, drawn and ready to be released and these trees were straining to be freed. It appeared as though a massive hand was holding them apart, a hand he could neither feel nor see.

  
_Crack!_

  
His head whipped back around, looking for the cause of the commotion. An oak had broken free from the spell. Branches swayed back and forth wildly as the trunk settled back down. It seemed as though a dam had broken as the forest began to break free from the spell. Slowly at first, with the trees awaiting their turn patiently, one by one it seemed before slowly gathering pace. Leaves came flying back and roots shot back to their homes like whips. The branches cracked through the air like a whip, attempting to punish the air before falling still once more.

  
Jon gathered pace as well, slowly at first as the trees had done before truly breaking into a sprint. Leaves and twigs struck his face and roots twisted around his feet. They threatened to take him to the ground but he rushed through, ducking wild branches and jumping over grasping roots. His fear of being engulfed by the forest grew steadily and only settled when he saw the raven not five paces away from where he was. Jon lunged in panic despite common sense telling him that it would only pain his hands and knees.

  
He landed hard and his hands and knees flared with pain just as he knew it would but he cared naught. He was free from the twisted Wolfswood which had changed so much since he had last passed under its branches. Shoving himself to his feet, he glanced back, ready to flee once more if the danger had not passed. But the trees were still and peaceful again. They appeared undisturbed as though they hadn’t been clashing and battering one another just moments ago. The raven flapped down to his shoulder and this time he did not startle. Indeed, the weight of the bird felt comforting and when it decided to peck at him, he felt affection rather than pain.

  
Satisfied that the forest had calmed itself, he turned his back on it, not wishing to venture in there again any time soon and laid sight upon Winterfell. Ancient and strong it loomed half a mile away and appeared illuminated by a glow that shone strange and eerie. Facing the castle, his home, Jon did not feel anything glad. Yet, he should have. This was his home and he would soon see his family again but This Winterfell felt … different somehow. Instead of feeling relief and joy, he felt … apprehension … mayhaps. He could not identify the emotion running through him though it set his nerves on edge and raised the hair on the back of his neck.

  
The raven nipped at his ear, as though beckoning him to go on, go home. Indeed, it felt as though the castle was inviting him in, Jon could feel the pull inside his mind. He knew it to be wrong and dark but he couldn’t back away, no matter how much he wished to. Left with no choice, Jon put his foot forward and headed up to the gate. His legs shook and his heart raced, he felt as though he was marching into a battle. A battle he could not win.

  
The outer walls loomed, eighty feet high and strong as ever. The guard turrets stood abandoned and the Hunter's Gate was left open. He crossed through, sweat ran down his brows and back, caused by the emotion that he couldn't name. A courtyard opened up before him and the ground was muddy, likely from the rain, he thought as he stepped over numerous puddles. He kept his pace slow, allowing his eyes to observe everything. The kennels came next, they were silent and the gates were swung open. The night sky disallowed Jon the chance to see inside but he guessed by its silence that it was as abandoned as the turrets.

  
The moat came next and there the drawbridge had been let down as the chains had been cut loose and tossed around. The moat was still intact and filled with water. Mist drifted off the surface as he passed, revealing black water.

  
Now he quickened his pace, passing the empty inner walls and raised portcullis he found the kitchens to be cold. He entered them, searching for signs of life, a burning hearth, boiling pots, the sweet scent of lemon cakes. But he was met with the revolting stench of decay. Seeing nothing of use, Jon left, feeling a small joy at leaving the desolate kitchens behind.

  
The courtyard was empty as he walked across, headed to the Guest House. A shrill shriek of laughter stopped him. It came from behind him and turning, he saw the Great Hall, blazing with light, it's great doors opened as a gaggle of women came out. They were leaning on one another and it was clear as day that they were drunk. They walked off slowly, still laughing shrilly, towards the Great Keep. Jon frowned at the women’s state, wondering how his Father had allowed them to act in such a way.

  
Frowning deeply, he walked across the courtyard and under the bridge that connected the Great Keep to the inner wall. Reaching the wide doors made of oak and iron, he peered inside and saw a grey feast. Every hearth in the hall was burning, bigger and brighter than he had ever seen them be. Smoke rose from them, making it incredibly hazy; indeed, the haze covered the dais and the rafters, not allowing Jon a glimpse at his family. His eyes stung and watered at the excess smoke the hearths provided but he blinked them away and his eyes adjusted.

  
Eyes clear, he moved down the center aisle, four long trestle tables to each his side. It was enough to seat five hundred yet as Jon gazed around he felt as though there were more than five hundred people. Most of the faces he observed were unfamiliar but he saw many who were. First was Ser Rodrik, his whiskers noticeably shorter, his clothes were splattered with blood and he was missing his right arm. Maester Luwin was next, hurrying past a serving wench, he had a large red stain at the back of his robes and another smaller one above his heart. Then Jory was there and so was Fat Tom and Old Nan and Alyn, Beth, Gage, Mikken and on it went. They all had scars and old, red stains. Raucous laughter drew his attention. At a table near the raised platform, men were howling with laughter while a man, bearded, grey-eyed, and with a bruised neck regaled upon them a tall story.

  
Jon's head was in a daze and it was not because of the smoke. As he neared the dais, the smoke lifted and instead moved further upwards and back. There was another table above the dais and now that table was obscured. Yet his escalating confusion was quickly supplanted by sheer horror. At the Lord's seat sat his Lord Father, Eddard Stark. He knew it was him because his head was there, sitting on his lap. Long-faced and with a beard shot with grey, there was no denying that it was his Lord Father. Jon was horrified and looked away, not wanting to see his Father in such a manner. To his Father's left sat Lady Stark, her face clawed at by what Jon thought were nails and her throat was slit, adding to Jon's horror. A wolf-headed man sat to his Father's right and Jon quickly recognized him to be Robb. Although how he knew it to be so, he hadn't the faintest idea.

  
It felt like a blow to his gut, to see them dead. Jon staggered back, eyes moving from one chair to another, fearing to see Arya, Bran, Sansa, and baby Rickon up there with no heads or gruesome wounds. Instead, he saw another horrific spectacle, a man dressed head to toe in roasted armor with golden spurs. The skin had merged with iron and the wounded flesh had not healed and puckered red, creating a truly ghastly sight. The visor had not been spared and so Jon was gifted a look at the man's eyes and distinguished them to be grey and dignified.

  
A lovely woman flitted down from the dais above this one and stole his eyes, she had a pale dress, one not in the style of the North; her lower half was splattered with lots of blood but she did not seem to care. She moved past him and seated herself next to the man with the ugly bruised neck. Grabbing his goblet, she downed it one and laughter spilled from her lovely lips when the man sputtered and glared at her. He quickly recovered however and made a jest that sent another gale of rambunctious laughter through the hall.

  
She wiped her lips with the back of her hand when she noticed him. Her wide smile died and her dark grey eyes filled up with tears. She did not shed them however as she gave him a sad smile, her eyes conveying the depths of her sorrow.

  
Sorrow.

  
That was it. Sorrow was what he had felt and been unable to name. This was a feast for the dead, he realized, where the ghosts of Winterfell came to rest eternally. Sorrow filled this hall as this feast was only an imitation of living. Being here was like having a thirst that could never be quenched. After so long of 'living' like this, Jon surmised that it would neither be hell nor heaven, simply an in-between where only sorrow could be experienced.

  
Jon could feel it, the sorrow. No, he had been feeling it since he laid his eyes on this castle. It was overwhelming. Simply put, he had been here not an hour yet he wished to curl up and cry in a corner. It reminded him of whenever he had been insulted as a child, whenever he had been belittled and ignored.

  
He returned his sad smile and let his eyes wander around again. This was a feast for the dead and Jon Snow was not dead yet or so he hoped. He dropped his eyes and headed to the door, desperate to get out, to leave this place. _You’ll be here when you die_ , a voice whispered, _this is your fate, endless sorrow will be the reward for all your pain_. He brushed those thoughts aside, gods be good, he would not return here for a long time.

  
The great doors slammed shut when he exited and taking with it the sorrow and seemingly Winterfell. The Winterfell he emerged to was burnt and heavily damaged. Whereas before, it had been abandoned and cold now it seemed wholly ruined. He saw the stables gone to ash, the kitchens had been upended, the Library tower was covered in soot while the Belltower had scorch marks. The massive bell which had hung at the top had been cut and now lay in the mud, cracked and dirty. Alongside it lay a golden Kraken on a black banner, although it lay in the mud alongside charred planks and rubble.

  
Anger coursed his veins as he walked through Winterfell, his black cloak billowing behind him, trying to find which structures had remained intact. His anger grew when he saw that almost all of Winterfell had been damaged, only the godswood being truly spared. He passed the Great Keep with its shattered windows and the armory where weapons and armor stood destroyed. The Guards Hall was much the same but further on he saw the crypts and saw them to be undefiled.

  
The ironwood doors had been caved in and the dark, spiralling steps stood exposed. Jon knew he had to descend to where the Kings of Winter rested beneath their stone direwolves in their stone tombs. He had had this dream many times before, although he had never witnessed his Father's fate nor had Winterfell ever been sacked in it. However, the dream would always conclude when he descended the steps and it became too dark. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself, determined to see it to the end.

  
He descended carefully, the steps were steep and in several places slippery and it would not do well to slip and break a bone. Darker and darker it grew as Jon descended, making him believe that he would need to find a torch soon. Feeling his resolve waver as he went, he stopped and considered his options. Fleeing would be a craven's choice, he knew but it had not felt cowardly in the Wolfswood or the snowy field. It did not feel cowardly now but he refused and took another deep breath. His Lord Father had raised four sons not four cravens, he thought. The torch would prove unnecessary it seemed as, at the bottom of the steps, he could see well enough without light. The dream would not end because of the darkness this time.

  
Way down below it was sweltering rather than cool and Jon became uncomfortable in his black, leather clothing as he passed the statues slowly. Black, he noticed, like the Night's Watch. They eyed him, it seemed the Kings of Winter and the wolves at their knees. Now the wolves looked hungry where before they had looked noble and fierce. The Old Kings had naught else but scowl and rusted swords it seemed. They judged him with cold eyes, making him feel unwelcome. He parted through a cobweb and heard rats scuttering around and even cursed when one ran by his foot but his focus remained on the statues. He observed them, ready to flee if he saw anything more than judgement.

  
Aunt Lyanna was the last statue and by the time he reached her he was forcibly breathing, so great was his fear then. Jon looked at her, as she had been a lady, she did not have a stone direwolf to sit beside and guard her nor an iron sword to keep her spirit in her tomb. But he was far more curious about her eyes, were they judging him just as every other pair of eyes seemed to do down here. Yet rather than condemning him, her eyes were shedding tears, wetting her cheeks and dripping slowly down her face.

  
 _“LEAVE!!!,”_ the stone kings all chorused. It was deafening as it resonated through the crypts and made Jon wince, startled and hurt deep in his heart.

  
 _“GET OUT!!! HALF-BREED!!!,”_ they all roared, threatening to make Jon break down and cry. Much more willing to oblige the stone kings than to weep in front of them, he ran, uncaring if it made him a craven or not. He ran back across the granite pillars as they chanted for his removal. He ran up the stairs, not caring if he slipped and hurt himself, even hopping up two steps in places where one was steep enough.

  
Jon ran out onto the snow and found it to be night again. The snow, which had just appeared, came up to his knees and fluttered about his head, landing on his hair. A wind blew across the courtyard blowing his hair and his black cloak back. He had felt the wind but it lacked the bite that all winds in the North usually delivered. The snow engulfed his black boots and leggings but he did not feel the cold nor did he feel the wetness of melting snow.

  
Walking away from the crypts, he witnessed Winterfell amid a terrible blizzard. Damn near everything was covered in huge drifts of snow and tall poles had been planted so that men did not lose themselves crossing through the castle's many courtyards. There were numerous snowmen, all shaped differently with some even having garments. A scarf here and a hat there yet most distinct snowman was the fattest. So fat that it was quite ridiculous to even imagine a man of such form. He stumbled through the snow, eyeing the various snowmen and using the poles to steady himself as he bore witness to the extensive change Winterfell had undergone.

  
Gone were the diamond-shaped window panes and in their stead were boards nailed in to stop the snow from blowing in. Winterfell had always been decorated with lots of direwolves but Jon found them to be gone, most likely chipped away. Many of the structures had remained in ruins but the ones deemed most important were fixed up as best as could be during winter. The gates had been replaced with new wood as had the stables. He viewed that the sept had been demolished as he passed the courtyard although he was sure that he would shed no tears over that. It had always been a place of worship for Lady Stark and he had kept with his father’s gods

  
His feet led to the walls and he warily climbed the snow-laden steps. To his luck, ice had not formed on the stone steps and the snow was hard but not slippery. His black cloak billowed alongside his hair as he made his ascent. The ramparts had been well salted as there was only a thin sheet of snow, allowing Jon to walk smoothly. Looking in between the merlons, his eyes were treated to the breathtaking sight of the North in winter.

  
The clearing between the outer walls and the edge of the Wolfswood was wholly covered in brilliant white snow. So white that he knew it would have gleamed and glittered had the sun risen in the sky rather than the moon. The forest laid half a league away and in between both rose Winter Town. At the height of summer, when the common folk roamed the forests and tilled their lands, the town would be filled with whores, orphans, and traders alongside those who lived there. In the dead of winter, it would have been bursting and bustling with an influx of people. Now it stood cold, despite it being winter, devoid of much light or warmth. Many of the stone huts had been collapsed as had the inn and brothel. Their remains still visible despite the heavy snow, the charred tips of many wood planks still stuck out.

  
To put it simply, Winter Town was near lifeless and dead.

  
Nonplussed, Jon stepped away from the battlements and peered at Winterfell. It was only partially restored with many of the old structures still damaged. His eyes crawled upwards slowly, taking time to gaze upon each shattered window and scorched stone, each new plank of wood and each piece of rubble. Higher and higher they went and stopped, finally, at the banner that hung there. Banners were barely visible in the dark, yet this one flapped brightly, red on pink. Red on pink. Only the Boltons kept banners colored in such a manner and as he slowly stepped closer and peered harder, he made out the flayed man.  
Hanging above Winterfell.

  
Dismay and anguish slowly gathered in his gut as his mind pieced together what he had seen. His Father, Lady Stark, Robb, Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik and all the rest, dead, Winterfell put to the torch and sacked, winter painting the North white and Winter Town laying in desolation. But most of all, the flayed man flying instead of the direwolf.

  
He would have screamed if another hadn't beaten him to it. It was high and girlish, desperate and in pain. Coming from the Great Keep, it dawned on Jon that it was not any girl's cry but Arya's.

  
“ARYA,” he yelled as something cold grasped his heart and his gut tightened with terror. His shout echoed through the acres large complex that was Winterfell and her cries paused for a second before continuing. Now more desperate and in more suffering. He lurched forward towards the stairs but before he could take a step he was shackled. Shackled by massive black chains that shot out of a dark cloud that had materialized behind him which he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye. They wrapped around his wrists and ankles, another one coiled itself around his neck, restraining his head, as another chained his gut and chest.

  
Immobilized, he struggled and tugged hard at the chains, praying for them to snap in the cold so that he could run to Arya’s aid. But they remained firm. He twisted his head as far as it could go and considered the cold, black shackles and found it to be made of a material he did not recognize.

  
The raven flew into his sight then and landed on an unlit brazier. Jon had never noticed its disappearance, had never noticed it flying off. He stared at the silent bird and wondering why he hadn’t noticed it fly off and observing its posture. It seemed different, less like the bird that nipped at his ear and more like the one he had first made acquaintance with. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” The words had poured from its beak, so unlike itself that Jon was shocked into silence. His sister screamed again and broke his shock, he cried out.

  
“ARYA,” Jon called, distraught at his sister’s suffering. The raven gave his sister’s cry a bored glance before turning its attention back to him.

  
Opening its beak, it spoke again, “I suppose all her pain and hardships are irrelevant in the end.” His voice was patient, careful, and seemed to ooze empathy but Jon cared naught for his tone but rather his words.

  
“What is it you mean, bird? Why are you holding me?” Jon questioned impatiently. Sure that these chains were the raven’s doing. It possessed great power, Jon knew and now it felt as though it was mocking him and boasting of its power.

  
It - _no_ , He, _he speaks with a man’s voice_ , Jon conceded - made a tutting sound that, for Jon seemed impossible to do given his beak. “Boy, I know you to be naive but not a fool. I meant exactly what I said, your … _sister’s_ … hardships _are_ irrelevant at the end.” he said, lingering on the word sister with an amused glance in his beady eyes. “And as for holding you,” he looked affronted and now unamused, “ _I_ am not the one who chained you. That would be yourself."

  
Silence greeted his words as Jon tried to make sense of what he had just heard. Not just his silence but Arya's as well, his fear steadily grew as time passed. Swallowing hard, Jon regarded the raven on the brazier. He seemed to play with Jon, hinting at something but not explicitly explaining. So he decided to concede and rather than ask of his sister he decided to humbly ask him to explain the chains since he seemed to not care for her. "Please, my lord, I don't understand," he pleaded. "If I truly shackled myself, for whatever reason, why can I not unshackle myself?"

  
The raven regarded him now with eyes that seemed squinted. Although he could not know for sure given the eye’s small size. “Well, perhaps I phrased it wrongly,” he said, in a thoughtful tone, “While it is true that it is not _I_ who has chained you, to say that it was _you_ who chained yourself would not wholly true either. In truth … I suppose these chains represent your _honor_. _Honor_ is what keeps you from saving your sister from a fate worse than death,” he nodded gravely.

  
“Honor?” he repeated. That did not make much sense to the young boy. Jon had been raised to believe that honor would aid him and that oathbreaking was the gravest of sins. Yet, honor was not aiding him now, he noted, neither did honor seem to have spared his Father and brother from their dark deaths. Honor was not helping him now, it was hindering him rather. It was keeping him chained and shackled while his sister suffered.

  
The chains loosened and turned to black sand, blown away by the cold wind. The cold, he thought, he felt it now. The sharp, biting wind, the cold kiss of each snowflake that touched down upon his skin. Each breath he took felt as though needles were pricking his lungs but it felt invigorating. Closing his eyes, he looked up and took many deep breaths, the flurrying snow felt cleansing as he kneeled in the snow, getting his knees wet doing so. He felt not only clean but free as well. "The honorable path is not always the best one, Jon Snow," he said, "Don't forget that." With that, he turned to black sand too, just as the chains had and like the chains, he was blown away by the wind. Carried off to wherever the wind went.

  
Arya’s scream pierced through the air again, reminding Jon of her plight. He made for the stairwell and this time found himself to be obstructed by only the thick snow and harsh wind. His heart pounded, both out of fear and anger. Who dared to hurt his little sister, he thought as he rushed down, the hardened snow on the steps allowing him to do so. Reaching the bottom, he didn’t stop, running inside the path that had been shoveled by guardsmen much earlier. Thundering past the granite walls of the Great Keep and under the bridge that led to the armory, he tried to imagine who was bringing harm to Arya. Was it the Boltons, who had appeared to have sacked the great fortress and taken it for themselves. Was it the Greyjoys, whose banner he had witnessed in the mud in the courtyard.

  
Jon finally arrived at the thick, oaken entrance to the Great Keep. He wrenched them both open and ran through … and found himself on a hill overlooking a walled city. A bloated sun was sinking on the horizon. Its last crimson fingers struck against the walls and the many ships docked at the port. The city itself was massive and was being illuminated by great, bright lights. Bewildered, he looked back, expecting to see a door behind him but instead his eyes found a wave. Over a hundred feet tall and wider than he could make out, it crashed into him and swept him away.

  
The strength of the wave was incredibly powerful. It pulled and pushed him, spun his whole body around and disoriented him so greatly that he could no longer tell up from down. He flailed his arms and body as his lungs burned from the lack of air. Fortunately, the wave’s pull subsided and his stinging eyes glimpsed light from behind his head. Twisting his body around, he swam upwards and thanked the gods that he had always been a strong swimmer. His head broke free from the surface and he took huge breaths to relieve his burning lungs. The water had clogged and slowed in the streets of the city, dead bodies floated in and about as he tried to keep his head above the water.

  
Light poured down from the cloudy sky. The clouds had blocked most of it but it soon darkened again as something fell and crashed down upon them. Again he was swept away by the strength of the water. Again the water pulled and pushed him, spinning his whole body around and disorientating him and again he could not tell down from up as he flailed his leaden legs and arms, trying to surface but unable to do so.

  
His lungs burned worse than before and he couldn't see now, it was too dark. He breathed out and felt the bubbles rushing away from him; towards the surface; towards the air. But he was spent, his arms slowed as did his legs and he felt his will leaving him; just like the bubbles. It felt odd, he thought, he had never envisioned himself dying in such a manner. Falling in battle, yes, burning up from some unknown fever, that too and sometimes, when he felt his shame leave, he fancied himself dying in his bed, at an old age in his keep; surrounded by servants and family.

  
Suddenly he felt himself rising. He felt something wrap a limb around his chest and push him up, towards the air. Gently, he was pushed upwards, the limbs, for lack of a better word, grasped his legs and arms. Opening his eyes, he saw the light, rushing to his face and was curtly ejected from the sea. He flew high and landed on a stony ridge overlooking the sea. Landing hard on his back, he immediately hurled up fresh seawater and bent over, coughing and spluttering. His throat felt raw and incredibly sore, as though he had been shouting for an hour. Jagged rocks cut into his hand and knees as he gathered his wits and glimpsed a variety of pebbles and stones littering the ridge.

  
Foamy waters sprayed across his face as he slowly raised his pounding head. The ridge he had been thrown on was high above the sea, some thirty feet he guessed but the water here lapsed high and wild. He saw huge rock formations rising proudly above the sea, ready to destroy the hull of any ship that wandered too close, yet he saw smaller ones too. Those that barely broke surface but were much more treacherous for that very fact. He knew that experienced captains would steer clear of the large ones but fall prey to the ones lurking just below.

  
Rising unsteadily to his feet, his head whipped around when he heard the sound of steel clashing on steel. Already spent, Jon wanted to ignore it and find a place to rest but his legs ignored him it seemed as they stepped towards the singing sound. He followed what seemed to be a made path, as the ridge led to a cliff and the cliff had a stone path. It stood no wider than two feet and had the cliff as a wall on its left and a sharp drop to the grey water on its right. He walked slowly, wary of the churning waters and mindful of his steps as one blunder could mean his return to the sea.

  
Finally, the cliff fell away to reveal a sight straight from one of Old Nan’s tales. There were two knights, both clad in brilliantly adorned and crafted armour and both lacking their helms. They appeared to be twins, Jon thought, as both had flowing silver hair but the blur-like movement of their swords and armour stopped him from properly glimpsing at their faces. Moving gracefully over stones and the sparse, softly swaying grass, the pair of them swung with equal vigor and skill.

  
Suddenly, the knights came to a halt, swords froze mid-swing as a low _thrum_ came from the distance, beyond where the knights stood frozen. Jon gave a low grunt of pain as an arrow lodged itself into his right breast. The speed of which the arrow hit threw him back and suddenly he was falling. But not into the sea it seemed as he kept falling and falling. The cliff, disappeared as did the salty air and the waves upon waves of greywater. Grasping at his breast, he tried to find the arrow, to yank it out but it was gone, as gone as the waves and cliffs. Falling, he spun around, just in time to distinguish a red door before he fell through it.

The red door led to a large corridor, lit with sunshine and intricately carved. He made out more red doors and great tapestries before he left the corridor, falling sideways through the doors and to the outside. Outside was red and hot. Dusty mountains gathered in the distance and a round tower rose on a hill. Seven against three, he saw. Seven dressed in various garbs and roasting under the red sun. Three garbed in white armour and snow cloaks. He passed them just as they drew their swords and fell through the sands.

  
The sands let him through and now he landed; on snow as soft as silk. Yet, that had not been enough to steal away all the momentum he had gathered in his long fall and his body shuddered with pain as he hissed. Jon sat up slower than a snail, spasms of pain surging through his body whenever he made a quick movement. A pale moon rested high in a cloudless sky and the tall, dark trees that cluttered about stood silent.

  
Yet, what claimed his eyes was the Wall. Seven hundred feet tall it went up and three hundred miles it ran end to end. It was enormous and Jon found it hard to imagine it being built by just men. Old Nan had told him long ago that Brandon the Builder had had help from the giants and the children of the forest yet as he had grown older, he had dismissed it as a fable. Now though, looking at it with his own eyes, Jon saw how it could not have been a simple tall tale. The Wall was built with giants and men, children and magic, and something else, Jon knew. He could feel the power and sorcery locked beneath the ice. It felt too immense, too unworldly and he feared whatever had the magic to cast such a spell.

  
 _AAAroooooooooooooooooooooo_ sounded a horn from beyond the Wall. He had jumped at the abrupt call of the horn but now he waited. Straining his ears to listen, he waited rigidly as the cold swept up his now smoky grey cloak. _Crack_! He heard far to his right and another far to his left. The Wall was cracking and disgorging massive sheets of itself. They landed with a heavy crash in the snow as more of the Wall fell. The cracks turned visible and the massive sheets turned to massive chunks. The chunks hit the earth and shattered into millions of pieces of old ice as the ground rumbled and shook.

  
The Wall had fallen. The great barrier to the end of the world now was just simply countless pieces of ice and boulders. From his distance, Jon stood thunderstruck and numb. All the feeling in his arms and legs had left. Yet it was not over. Not even close.

  
 _Things_ crawled over the rubble. They were dark and unending, they surged in masses and in each direction Jon looked, he saw them and their eyes; burning blue. Brighter than any star and colder than cold. They brought the cold with them and their leader brought death with him.

  
Death and winter.

  
A tug pulled at the small of his back and drew him away backward; away to the south. He left the army of blue eyes and dark bodies but the feeling of death and winter followed him. Like a stench, he could not get rid of. He flew south, faster than he could grasp. He passed Long Lake and the many trees of the Wolfswood. He saw the Northern mountains, their peaks white with snow. And at last, he saw Winterfell, bringing with him death; from far to the lands beyond the wall.

  
Jon woke up. He was sweating and felt weaker than a stray dog but he cared naught, he had to warn them. He had to tell them. Head swimming, he sat up and yelled as loud as his throat allowed him. He doubled over, wheezing, but didn't stop. Try as he might but he couldn't keep yelling. His throat felt too raw and he felt feverish. Allowing his head to drop down to his pillows, he felt himself slipping back into unconsciousness when his door slammed open and he held on.

  
"By the gods," he heard, was it Alyn? "Go, Porther. Inform Lord Stark that Jon's awake." Heavy steps signaled that Porther had gone and he heard Alyn shout after him. "Bring a nurse, as well." A blurred figure kneeled next to his bed and called his name but Jon could only groan, warnings on the tip of his tongue. "By the gods, Old and New, you're awake, and on the day that he fell too," Alyn continued. Who fell? Jon wanted to ask but he had held on as long as he could and the darkness took over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly book based.
> 
> There will be additional tags added, Jon and Robb and etc will get their partners and yada yada yada.
> 
> This is unbeta'd so I'm sorry for any grammatical errors.


	2. Wandering Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb chats with Jon in his chambers, Tyrion takes a stroll in the godswood, and Jon takes a stroll to the crypts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any bolded words means that I copied it from A Game of Thrones.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

**Robb Stark**

The sun was setting when the maid roused him from his nap. His slumber had been tonic and he silently thanked Maester Luwin for sending him to his chambers after the disaster in the training yard.

Growing reckless, he had abandoned all defense and struck at his opponent with wild fury. Thinking about the ordeal, Robb swore at his foolishness. His sparring partner had not been Jon, who would have countered his barrage with cold, precise strikes than with overwhelming strength. Nor had his sparring partner been Theon, who would match him blow for blow, with equal vigor. No, his partner had been Shadd. A well-built, slightly stocky man with a thick beard, broad shoulders, and large arms. Shadd was well experienced; slipping swings and parrying where necessary and waiting for Robb to come unbalanced before striking once at his head.

Thankfully, his helm and padding took the blow but nonetheless, his head rung and he was light-headed. Ser Rodrik had been incensed by his foolhardiness and had chastised him thoroughly, although Robb had not heard a single word, busy as he was trying to get the ringing out of his ears.

He could not recall much afterwards. Shadd had said some words and Maester Luwin more than a few before placing him in bed shortly after the ringing had subsided. The rest had done him well. Rest had been short in hand for a long while now. _Since Jon injured his head,_ he thought and with that thought, the peace he had felt was gone again. Replaced by that low feeling of foreboding.

Their guards had found the deserter, he remembered, in a small holdfast just two days from Winterfell. The deserter had been old and grey, like his clothes. Neither of his ears had survived the frostbite and neither had his wits. Whispering and muttering, his father had questioned the man and it did seem as though he heard the questions for he kept muttering _Stark, Stark._

His father had been disturbed, he could tell, as he swung Ice down on the scrawny man's neck, painting the snow red. On the ride back, his father had been silent, his face carved from stone, he had donned his Lord's Face then.

Of course, Robb had been too impatient to truly notice; he had been glad that the execution was over with, although the man’s distraught state and muttering of _Stark_ had given him pause. Jon had asked him of his thoughts and he had voiced them openly; the man had been craven but he’d had the courage not to struggle when he had been forced to bend. His brother had been unimpressed. Jon had thought the man had been too distraught to notice anything amiss, scared witless, he said.

“Why do you reckon he was muttering _Stark,_ " Jon asked solemnly. That question seemed to be fluttering about in his father's mind, but Robb was not so concerned and he brushed it aside, starting to feel restless on his horse. He itched to kick the horse and be on his way, on his pace but he answered the question and waited to spring his own.

"The man saw our banners, everyone in the North knows the direwolf is the sigil of House Stark. Race-"

"I thought it might be Uncle Benjen, given the man had taken the black. He would surely know who the First Ranger is." He had looked so serious at that moment. His dark eyes sharp, Robb was reminded that his bastard brother rarely missed a thing. Whether it be who ate the last lemon cake or who broke the window in the Great Keep. His irritation at being cut off was replaced by contemplation. The man had been a sworn brother and he would have surely known who Uncle Benjen was.

“It could be,” he said slowly, “But it's still a stretch. I doubt he would be thinking of Uncle Benjen so far south.” He looked over and saw that Jon was still brooding, a habit that caused both exasperation and amusement from him and his siblings. Thinking back to his horse, he sprung his dare. “Leave it be, Jon. Race you to the bridge?”

Jon had taken off without warning and left Robb in his wake, but he hadn’t minded; laughing and hooting and trying his best to reach him. They had found the direwolves then and Jon had convinced their father to keep them. Robb had felt guilty when he had omitted himself from the count. He knew how much it pained Jon, being a bastard. He had been thinking of a way to help Jon when his brother had turned back and found his albino in the snow. Feeling warm and smiling broadly, he had thanked the gods on Jon’s part.

Yet, the gods had taken offense to his thanks, it seemed or perhaps they had cursed Jon for being a bastard. A fate he had never been able to decide. It had happened just as they were entering through the Hunter's Gate; to bypass Winter Town. Robb had been the first to reach the gate, and so stopped and turned back; his horse panting as the wind picked up sharply. While waiting for the others he played with his pup, allowing the still-blind whelp to nip gently on his gloved finger. Bran was riding near Jory, trying to glimpse the direwolves in his arms. Jon was behind the others and had been paying attention to his albino when, unbidden, his horse bucked.

Jon had let out a startled cry; a cry he could still here; and reached for the reins. But he was too slow and he fell hard onto solid ground, free of snow to soften his fall. A _crack_ came from where his head connected with the path and Robb had gasped loudly, shock written plain on his face. Everyone in their party had heard the fall and they had rushed over to his side and hurried him over to Maester Luwin. The old maester had had his work cut out for him as his brother had suffered from a fractured skull and broken shoulder. 

Setting the shoulder had been simple, the fractured skull had been tricky but what had proved to be the most difficult was waking Jon. His brother had fallen into slumber in which he spent two moon's turns in; rarely moving beside a few hand squeezes. A thick somber cloud of gloom had spent its way through Winterfell, permeating the air and walls and there had been a great fear that Jon would never wake. That fear had left Robb with many sleepless nights and as many headaches to match. _But he woke and he’s fine, he’ll be fine,_ he thought, trying to convince himself that everything would be the same once again. They just needed Bran to wake and for father and the girls to come home and for his mother to shake off her grief. _And for a wizard to come and fix Bran’s legs,_ he thought miserably.

The maid asked if he was wanting for a bath and Robb snapped out of his brooding. _Brooding,_ he thought with a touch of amusement. _I wonder if Jon is making japes._ Robb shook his head and sent the maid - Alyd was her name - on her way.

Making his way over to the basin, he found the water to be warm and he quickly splashed his face and neck with it, wiping away the grogginess. Quickly dressing, he crossed over to his looking glass and checked his face for marks made from Shadd’s strike. Thankfully, it seemed as though the helm and padding had done its desired duty and his face was clear of scratches or bruises.

Stepping out of his chambers, he walked down the corridor slowly, wondering where Theon might be before recalling him discussing going down to Winter Town. More specifically, the brothel.

Shaking his head at his friend's vices, he kept walking, deciding to visit his mother. She had not left Bran's side since he had been hurt; too consumed by her grief to check up on Rickon or bathe properly. His mother had not even come to the gate when father and the girls had gone South, only six days hence.

Deeply worried, Robb wrung his hands and ran his hand through his thick hair only for Rickon's laughter to wash it all away. It came from down the corridor, he gathered. Walking closer, he heard more and more of his youngest brother's laughter quietly drifting out of Jon's chambers.

Opening the door quietly, Robb glimpsed inside and was presented with a heartening sight. Jon was sitting upon his bed, his back leaned against a pile of pillows, while speaking encouragements and advice to their baby brother. Rickon was delighted as he ran around the chambers, crawling under the desk and spinning round the chair, trying to keep away from Grey Wind and Ghost while Shaggydog acted as a guard. His brother was breathless and squealed with joy whenever one of the wolves cut him off, causing him to run the opposite direction on his short, little legs.

Despite himself, Robb smiled broadly. Rickon had been the most affected by the changing situation around him. He had clung to Robb’s leg after father and the girls had left and cried uncontrollably when mother hadn’t been the one to put him to bed. Jon had been likewise. He had been confused and trembling when he had woken and even after a fortnight seemed to be afraid of something, spending long hours brooding in his chambers. Now they were both smiling and beyond themselves with glee.

He made his presence known by opening the door entirely. Rickon saw him and laughed with even more joy; running to his side and tackling him with a hug. Grey Wind padded up to him, licking his hand while Ghost silently tracked over to his master; both friendly and obedient. Shaggydog, however, was the wildest of his littermates. His fur was black and his eyes were lit green like wildfire and as the wild wolf closed the distance, he bared his teeth and growled at him. Immediately, Grey Wind darted forward, his body a blur, and stood in front of Shaggydog; ever ready to protect his master.

Rickon seemed to neither notice nor care for his wolf’s wildness as he bound forward and wrapped his arms around Shaggy’s neck; seemingly calming the beast. Robb looked up at Jon and found him frowning at Rickon’s wolf. _No. Not frowning, brooding,_ he thought with an amused roll of his eyes. “Rickon, the sun’s set. If you hurry, you might be able to sneak a treat for you and Shaggy before dinner,” Jon said.

It was quite comical seeing his baby brother's eyes shine and his mouth drop. Just as though it appeared that Rickon was at his happiest, someone would say or do something that left him even more awed and delighted than before. It was truly wonderful seeing children grow older and learn more and more about the world. Robb wondered what his sons and daughters would find most astonishing.

Tugging at his wolf's neck, Rickon thanked Jon loudly before running out the quarters; eager to eat some treats. Jon nudged Ghost on and the albino took the hint, Robb did the same with Grey Wind and the pair of wolves quickly left; following Rickon to the kitchens as protection.

Closing the door, he turned around and said, “Oh deftly done, Snow.”

Jon lay back down on his cushy pillows and stretched his legs. His whole body had thinned from his long slumber. Maester Luwin had only been able to pour some honey and wet his lips with milk and water to keep him from dying from hunger or dehydration. But that hadn’t been enough to keep Jon from losing more than a stone and his gaunt appearance reflected that. “Thank you, Stark. Although, I cannot say the same about you in the training yard,” his voice tinged with amusement.

Robb grimaced. “You saw that?” he asked.

“Aye. I was watching from the ramparts.”

“I thought Maester Luwin had given strict orders not to allow you to roam the castle on your own. You’re still too weak,” he said, perplexed, and Jon grew guarded. His eyes were hooded but Robb had lived with him for all their lives and he could partially see beyond his stern guard. Yet, Robb failed to discern anything other than slight irritation and found himself slightly irritant as well.

“Those orders would have been followed had there been a guard outside my chambers,” he said wryly. “And, I suppose I have you to thank, Stark. Had you not had your head rung like a bell then Maester Luwin might have caught me.” Robb felt as though the words were off. It was something in Jon’s demeanor that did not feel right, something with the way his eyes seemed sharper than usual. Besides, wouldn’t he have seen if Jon had been standing on the ramparts? 

Ignoring his worries, Robb moved over to the chair and dragged it over towards the bed, causing a bulge in the rug which he stopped to smooth over. He spread his gaze through the chambers, his eyes searching for wine. "There's no wine if that's what you're seeking. The old maester will only allow me to drink water or milk," his brother said.

"A shame that; I believe there's still some of that summer wine the King brought from the South." He could see that it irked Jon not to be able to taste sweet southron wine.

“I take it you enjoyed the King’s stay at Winterfell,” he said mutedly. Robb felt his lips lifting upwards at provoking his brother, making him annoyed and causing him to brood more. Which in turn would only lead to more japes on his behalf.

"Ah, the feast was something out of a song, Snow," he started, making an exaggerated voice. "The grandest feast you've ever seen, wine flowing akin to a river, a noble king, a beautiful queen, and their perfect golden children. Brave knights and lovely maids. Expensive gowns and elegant garbs, rowdy dances and a hundred dishes." Jon was beside himself with laughter now and Robb broke off his description to join in.

Laughing hard and in between breaths, his brother gave a retort. “Any more, Stark, and I’ll have to peg you as a bloody poet.” They only laughed harder.

Coming down from their shared laughter, they grew quiet; suppressing their snickers and allowing themselves time to steady their breaths and catch their breaths. “It _was_ ill luck that you missed the feast,” he said with a normal tone.

"Aye, it was ill-luck." Sitting up in his bed, he held an unusual expectant face. "And I have no doubt that you will regale me with the entire tale, From the King and Queen to their children and retainers." It was more demand than question and it felt strange hearing something so pressing from him. His brother had always been blunt; something that most Northmen, including himself, shared. Yet, despite Jon's usual bluntness, he had never been loud nor had he had a commanding voice.

Robb told him everything he remembered. How the king had been quite a disappointment, the queen had been nothing but cold and how the younger two children were quiet and timid. The Kingslayer had been just as beautiful as the queen but had exchanged her frostiness for arrogance and snarky remarks.

Recalling Joffrey, he managed to use every swear he had ever learned in the stables and barracks to describe the Crown Prince. The golden shit had touched his pride in the training yard despite not even possessing half of Robb’s skill with a blade. The memory rankled, made even worse by the fact that Sansa fawned over the prince every chance she could get.

Jon listened well. Leaning against his pile of pillows, he asked questions every time Robb failed to clarify and seemed both annoyed and amused when he spoke of Joffrey. When Robb began speaking of the Tyrion Lannister and he mentioned that the dwarf had struck up a lively argument with Luwin just the night before, Jon interrupted to ask, "I thought Lord Tyrion would have left for Kings Landing."

“He made his wish to visit the Wall known,” he said. “And since Uncle Benjen disappeared beyond the Wall, he’s been waiting for another black brother to come through Winterfell.” The words tasted like ash coming from his mouth. Not the words about Lord Tyrion, as he had been markedly different from his brother and not just in size. Saying that Uncle Benjen had been lost felt wrong. After the shock Jon’s injury had caused them, his father had sent the deserter’s head back to the Wall along with a raven inquiring about Benjen’s health.

 _Dark wings, dark words_ , he thought, remembering the contents of the letter the Night’s Watch had sent back. _The First Ranger had gone on a ranging, four moon’s turns past now,_ they had written, _The deserter you caught and executed was part of Benjen’s ranging._

They had also written how the men had planned to return within three moon’s turns at most before vowing to send a raven as soon as the First Ranger returned. “I see,” Jon said softly. “Has there been no word on Uncle Benjen?”

"No," he said bluntly. It had been two moon's turn since the letter had arrived making it six months since their uncle had begun his ranging. The hope that Robb had felt in his heart had been slowly dying every day and Robb was sure that their Lord Father was feeling the same.

“When’s this black brother due?”

“In a day or so. Some of our guards found a wandering crow, named Yoren, some days north of Winterfell. Tyrion Lannister will join his band and head to the Wall,” he said. “Father also spread the word to those who wish to join the watch. We’ve got nearly a dozen men and boys here waiting.”

Jon nodded, “That’s good. I suppose Tyrion Lannister will not be lacking for company.”

Robb chuckled at his brother’s dry tone. Seeing him in contemplation, Robb frowned. “You’re not thinking about joining the Watch are you?”

Jon appeared startled by the question but he shook his head, saying, “No. No, I wasn’t thinking of _joining_ the Night’s Watch.”

“Good,” he said with some relief. “Father told me you’re to travel to White Harbour and on to Essos. And I do believe he mentioned something about _Aurane Waters_ and Qarth and spices," Robb mused.

Jon for his part took the jape with a small smile. "I am no captain, Robb. Nor am I a sailor. Nor did I mention traveling all the way to Qarth." Jon looked hesitant now. It was as though something had suddenly jumped to the forefront of his mind and was bothering him. Swallowing hard, he glanced around his chambers. Eyes seemingly hitting everything but Robb. "What I was thinking," he said slowly, "was that with a dozen men already, what's one more?"

Robb frowned, understanding what had just been laid before him. “But you just said that you had no intention of joining the Watch. You told father that you would travel Essos.”

“And I have no intention of joining the Watch, Robb. I only aim to visit, like Lord Tyrion,” He replied patiently. “I also aim to speak with the Lord Commander about Uncle Benjen. Mayhaps he’ll tell me more about this ranging and what could have happened.”

“And Essos?” Robb asked.

“Do you wish to see me gone that much?” he japed and Robb chuckled at his brother’s jape before answering with a no. “I still intend to leave to Essos and travel through the Nine Cities but first I’ll go to the Wall and I’ll head back here and tell you everything the Lord Commander tells me,” he promised.

“I’ll send a few guards with you.” Seeing Jon open his mouth to protest, he added, “They’ll be there to make sure you don’t run off and join the Watch. Besides, you’re still weak and I don’t like the look of some of these men who volunteered. The guards will be there to make sure there is no trouble.” Jon closed his mouth, realizing defeat.

They sat there then. In the silence with only the crackling logs in the hearth to fill up the void. Far away, one of the wolves howled. _Bran’s wolf_ , he thought, looking at the darkness that painted the window. Although the howls were all near-identical, to those truly listening they could discern which wolf was which. _Bran,_ he thought morosely. His sweet and thoughtful little brother who had dreamed of knighthood.

“That was Bran’s wolf, wasn’t it?” Robb looked back and saw Jon with his eyes closed, his body sagging with exhaustion it seemed. _That injury must have weakened him far more than the maester believed,_ he thought.

“Aye, it was,” Robb replied. Opening his eyes, Jon looked at the window as well; his dark grey eyes conveying the sorrow in his heart.

Seeing Jon's melancholy, he felt overwhelmed then; all the walls came crashing down and he felt it then. The pressure of having to be the Lord of Winterfell. The danger that his father and sisters were in, down in the South. The end. Not the end of their lives, of course, but it was still the end. It was the end of careless days, spent bathing in the hot pools and sparring in the training yards. The end of sitting around the hearth while Old Nan spun her tales. The end of racing their horses and hunting in the Wolfswood.

The end of summer.

“It’s never going to be the same again, is it?” he asked. His voice broke towards the end as his throat tightened and his vision grew blurry and wet. Jon looked at him with those grey eyes. Those Stark eyes, filled with tears yet unshed. They seemed to agree with him and so he sobbed.

He put his face away in his hands so as to not show Jon anything. He heard the mattress shifting before a pair of thin arms quickly wrapped themselves around him and Jon’s voice reached out to his ears. Trying to express hope but failing, his thin arms only reminded Robb of what was happening to his family and so he wept harder.

Hoping for things to go back. 

**Tyrion Lannister**

Winterfell's godswood was unwelcoming and somber, to say the least.

Tyrion felt as invited as the sunlight as he roamed around three acres of moody trees and moist earth. Here, the smell of decay filled his nose and the roots and branches of antiquity captured his awe as much as his uneasiness. Snow piled at the roots of grey-green armored sentinels and stretched itself lazily across the branches of oaks. The sight of snow and lush leaves not meshing together well in his eye. The ironwoods loomed tall, just as firm and foreboding as they had been since the time of the children of the forest. Shadows danced and seemed to speak to one another in hushed tones, though Tyrion knew that it was only the rustling of leaves that he heard.

To say that Winterfell’s godswood was unlike any godswood below the Neck would be akin to saying that wine was a better drink than piss. In the North, a godswood was a place of worship, yet in the South, godwoods were kept as places to stroll and play, read and lie in the sun.

Although, Tyrion didn’t know much about those. Apart from reading, there was not much he could identify in this strange place; so unlike this grove was to the one they kept at the Rock. There had been no children for him to play with during his youth and so he had never felt the need to have large open space with hiding spots aplenty. For Tyrion, lying in a bed with a whore or two was much more appealing than lying in the sun and getting burned by it. Besides that, strolling was not advisable with his short, constantly cramping legs. Thankfully, they were not cramping now.

He continued through the dark trees, mind wondering over the sheer history that this godswoods had seen. It had seen Brandon the Builder lay down the first brick and had seen the keep sacked twice by Bolton Kings; their names eluding him. It had seen Torrhen Stark gather his levies and march south to meet Aegon the Dragon and later seen Prince Jacaerys and his dragon Vermax glide over the walls. It had seen all that and more, and Tyrion was sure that the godswood would see plenty more before the end of humans and time.

Reaching the center of the grove, Tyrion found an ancient weirwood tree residing over a small, calm pond with waters that stood black and cold. The weirwood was the epitome of everything that he had read in his books. Bone-white bark leaves colored dark red and of course the face; it was a heart tree after all. He may not have been a maester, whose duty it would be to know this, but his mind was his weapon and so he had kept it sharp. And so he had armed himself with the fact that, in the North, **every castle had its godswood, every godswood its heart tree and every heart tree its face.**

The face was long and melancholy with eyes red from the dried sap. His features were watchful and knowing and it made Tyrion feel _guilty_ standing in its view. He felt as though he were on trial, a trial where the judge and jury already knew of his guilt. _What guilt,_ he asked dismissively and a voice of doubt answered it immediately, _you know exactly,_ it said.

Tyrion scowled at his troubled consciousness. Walking closer to observe, his mind couldn't help but drift to other weirwoods he had seen. The Stone Garden in Casterly Rock had a weirwood of its own but that one was rather twisted and did not inspire the same guilt that he felt now. It inspired nothing, truth be told, besides some token feeling of curiosity for why it grew out in such a misshapen manner. Raventree's colossal weirwood was dead, poisoned by the Brackens if the Blackwoods were to be believed, and leafless. The thousands of ravens that descended upon the branches and acted as leaves from dusk till dawn were poor replacements when likened to the blood-like leaves of a living weirwood. Only its enormous size and its deceased state raised its significance high.

The only godswood that held weirwoods that could rival the heart tree would be the ones on the Isle of Faces. Those trees had to be just as old as the one here and if the bards were to be trusted, they had witnessed the Pact between the First Men and children of the forest. They had witnessed the Dawn Age and the creation of the order of the green men. They had witnessed Addam Velaryon take counsel with the green men and if certain maesters were to be believed, the children of the forest had survived on that Isle; along with their pale trees and their earthly ways.

Though, Tyrion did not know any of these to be fact. The Isle of Faces was rarely visited and was mostly ignored by many of the smallfolk and lords. They believed it to be an island of little importance besides a setting for the wet nurse's tales and so it was left undisturbed. And undisturbed it stood.

Nearing the black pond, his gaze lowered from the bloody hand-like leaves to inspect the pond itself; wondering over why its water reflected black. His gaze lowered, Tyrion was startled to notice a figure sprawled across pale roots, his body utterly still; his eyes flickered while shut. It was a boy, he noticed as he crept towards him slowly, dark of hair but pale of skin, his hair was long and his figure gaunt. Tyrion realized that it was Jon Snow; Eddard Stark’s bastard.

Tyrion had heard of the incident that had befallen the poor boy and with growing concern, wondered if he had collapsed while coming here to pray to his tree gods.

Abandoning his caution, he rushed forward and knelt onto the thick, sprawling roots with as much dexterity as one could expect from a dwarf. Raising his hands, he grabbed onto his shoulder and chest and shook him; seeing whether it would have the intended effect.

Oh, it had the intended effect alright. The bastard woke faster than Tyrion’s cock did at the sight of a naked whore. He immediately bolted upright; knocking his hands away. The abrupt change knocked Tyrion back, both in mind and body. His mind jolted alongside his body and ended with his back lodged quite uncomfortably against the primal roots, his legs spasming as he reached for balance. He was sure the old gods were enjoying the scene.

The boy had his eyes wide open and staring down at him. A crazed look apparent before it subsided and turned to confusion then grew guarded. The quickness of which his emotions filtered out did not escape Tyrion though he was too busy righting himself to care much. “My lord,” the bastard addressed him. “Forgive me for knocking you back. You gave me a fright.”

“Yes, I’m sure that you thought I was one of your frightening gargoyles come alive when you saw my face.” He could not help the bite in his voice. The bitterness came over him as he finally righted himself upright. Legs still spasming lightly. **“You’re Ned Stark’s bastard, aren’t you?”** If his question had offended the boy, he did not deem to show it. Instead, he kept his closely guarded face intact, his expressions even. 

“Aye, Lord Stark is my father,” the bastard admitted, expression still even.

A chilling gust of wind swept through the grove and cut through his cloak. It sent small, freshly fallen snowflakes up in the air, some landing on his body and some on Snow’s. “I had guessed that already. Your looks are of the North, more so than any of your brothers. Other than that, it was your gaunt form that confirmed it.”

He saw a sliver of appreciation when Tyrion had spoken of his coloring but it was quickly gone. “Let me offer you some wise counsel, bastard to bastard.” He saw some confusion on the boy’s face but continued. **“Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”**

The boy considered it. “You say bastard to bastard, but you’re trueborn. Your mother was of Lannister and married to your father.”

“Am I trueborn?” he asked, feigning shock. “I’ll be sure to tell my father. I’m sure he’ll rejoice at the idea of his dwarf son being born of wedlock.” Sensing the boy’s nonplussed gaze, he sighed. **“All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes.”** His eyes saddened when Tyrion said that, it appeared as though his eyes were the key to knowing what the boy was thinking.

Dark, grey eyes shifted to the right. Tyrion followed his movements and looked to where he was and saw a white animal slowly padding towards the weirwood. _It's a direwolf,_ he thought as it closed the distance. It stopped for a brief moment to spare the dwarf a silent gaze with red eyes before moving on towards its master. The wolf was quite large now and was slightly bigger than its other siblings. Its snout would easily reach his nose and Tyrion wondered how he would look if the direwolf decided to bite it off. No doubt it would be an improvement in his appearance. One ugly nose was gone, just the rest of the body to go.

Snow gave his wolf a scratch beneath his jaws and smiled proudly at it. “Might I have a closer look,” he asked.

He hesitated before nodding. And so he found himself creeping closer to a direwolf who could no doubt tear his throat out if his teeth were any measure to go by. Reaching out to pet him, the wolf bared his teeth, giving a silent snarl. "Silent, isn't he?" he commented.

“That’s why I named him Ghost. That and his fur is white,” Jon said. Ruffling the fur between his ears, he quickly drew his hand back. Not wishing to outstay his welcome.

Stepping back, he looked up at the bastard, “I’m surprised to have found you here, Snow. Didn’t your maester confine you to bedrest?”

He gave a wry smile. “I’ve been resting for over a fortnight now and it may not look it but I have recovered quite a bit.” Snow was right that he did not look at it. His arms were much too thin and his clothes were slightly ill-fitting it seemed. Yet the boy knew his body better than Tyrion ever would. Still, he _had_ found the boy collapsed on the ground and youthful pride would never allow Snow to say that Tyrion was right.

"And I suppose it was another pale, dark-haired, gaunt boy that I found collapsed and spread across the heart tree's roots."

Jon scowled. _Ah. At last, the walls come down,_ he thought. “I wasn’t collapsed, I had simply fallen asleep after praying,” he said though from the boy’s tone it was awfully clear that he was lying. He decided not to push the matter, but he still decided to tease the boy.

“And what were you praying for, if you don’t mind me asking,” Tyrion prodded.

“Make your assumptions, my lord. My prayers are for the gods and gods alone,” he retorted.

 _Oh, deftly said, Snow,_ he thought. He decided to do as the boy told him and made some assumptions. Perhaps he was praying for his brother, Bran, to wake as he had done. Perhaps he was praying for some girl to like him. Perhaps he was praying for his brothers to never wake up from their nights of sleep so he could inherit his father’s castle. You never knew with bastards who hid their emotions well.

Ghost suddenly lifted his head and peered upward, towards some bird that had just flown overhead. The boy did not pay his wolf much attention as it got up and padded away, seemingly towards where the bird went. “I’ve decided to join you on your trip to the Wall,” he said abruptly.

Tyrion raised his brows, “You’re to join the Night’s Watch?’’

Whereas his brows had gone up, Snow’s brows went down. “No, I only intend to visit and inquire after my Uncle.” _Ah,_ he thought, _the uncle who disappeared._ “The Night’s Watch promised to send a raven as soon as Uncle Benjen returned but they still haven’t written.”

The concern in his voice showed to Tyrion that Benjen Stark was very much loved by his bastard nephew and probably loved by the rest of the Stark brood too. “How long has it been since he left on his ranging?”

Jon thought of it for a moment before answering, "Half a year at least." Hearing his answer, Tyrion was reminded of his Uncle Gerion. Uncle Gerion had also set off on a ranging of a sort, although instead of looking for some savage wildlings, he had gone off in search of Brightroar in the ruins of Valyria. Tyrion recalled that his uncle had sent a courier with a letter back to Casterly Rock, promising to send another within a year. He remembered that his father had barely spared a glance at the letter but Tyrion had been wholeheartedly the opposite. Being a child still and a dwarf at that, he had taken to rereading the letter every morning for the entire year; vastly awed by his uncle's descriptions of Essos. He had been so impressed that he had resolved to tour the Free Cities as soon as he came of age.

Yet that year had passed without any new letters nor any rumours. His Lord Father had deemed to send men to enquire about him and they came back, the bearers of bad news. They had said that his Uncle Gerion had arrived at Volantis where half his crew had deserted him. He had been forced to buy slaves as no worthwhile sailor, let alone a sane man, would dare sail into the Smoking Sea. And so his uncle had sailed and failed to sail back. He'd left Joy behind. He'd left Tyrion behind.

And Tyrion never toured the Free Cities when he came of age. His father had refused and had claimed his irresponsibility as the culprit reason as to why although Tyrion had never believed him. Instead, he had been put in charge of the cisterns and drains.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He truly was. It was not easy losing a loved one to death. And it could be harder still to have a loved one go missing, their fate unknown.

When one died for a certainty, then the person left behind grieved and in doing so, they would eventually move on properly. That person would recall happy memories and shared plights and in doing so, would be at peace and accept their fate.

Yet when one’s fate was unknown, there would always exist that small hope, buried in the heart beneath all the fear and sorrow; growing smaller by the day. That small hope resembled a pure silver, majestic horse and it would rear its beautiful and lonely head and gallop to the forefront; pushing away the sorrow for a time. It would shout and whisper that one day they would come back and that they had simply lost their way for a time. That everything would be the same again.

Yet beneath all that silver fur and magical glow, there existed an evil. An evil that perhaps did not mean to exist but it did and in existing, it sullied its pure essence.

The evil was a simple matter. The evil was that the horse, beautiful and infallible at its zenith, came and _left_. The horse only came occasionally and when it did, the sun shined and the birds sang but when it left, the skies poured and the fish drowned. Yet before the fish could truly drown and the skies empty its tears, the horse came again, undoing the progress that would lead to new life. And this would repeat and repeat, causing depression and stagnancy for how could a person move on when they are forced to start anew their grief.

No, the fish would drown and live, drown and live, extolling an immense pain until finally the horse stops coming. The hope dies and the skies pour out their tears and the fish die, giving way for new life to follow. New life that could have already bloomed radiantly was only now growing.

The boy looked at Tyrion with a stubborn gaze. “My uncle is not dead,” he said. Or was it the horse trapped in his heart that was speaking? “Give him time, he’ll come back,” he said with easy confidence.

It was easy to hold on to that hope, Tyrion knew. Easier than accepting the truth but the truth would ring true eventually and when it did, Tyrion hoped it wouldn’t cause the boy much pain. And so he only nodded under the boy’s stubborn gaze. Snow seemed to be satisfied by his nod and turned to the heart tree.

Suddenly, absurdly, Tyrion felt concerned over the boy, this bastard boy whom he had just been acquainted with. He moved towards him slowly, carefully picking his steps over the roots. Perhaps he had turned around to hide his tears. Losing a loved uncle was a plight they both shared. Mayhaps he could comfort the boy, get him to see sense, get him to turn that horse away before it hurt him too much. Sitting across from him, he stared at the heart tree again. _Perhaps that horse is more a weirwood for the boy,_ he thought.

Glancing over to the boy, he noted that he was lost in thought. His eyes closed and his face pensive. “Can you tell me of court, my lord?” He asked abruptly, his eyes still shut.

Tyrion didn't miss the shift in subject. He briefly wondered whether to steer the conversation back to uncles and grief but saw against it. He did not know why he was so concerned with Ned Stark's bastard and besides, the dwarf thought, young he may be, but he seemed collected. He trusted the boy to deal with that horse on his own and so he turned to his question. 

"Court?" Tyrion was both amused and confused by the question. Why would a northern bastard who had never been below the Neck be interested in that city of snakes and sycophants?

"Aye," he said sheepishly. "I missed out on the feast and every other event of note when the King came. I asked Robb but his view was very … colorful to say the least." Tyrion snickered. He again looked sheepish, "I thought that you would know much of the lords and ladies since you've been to court." 

“Well, I _have_ been to court and I _do_ know quite the amount of scandals and gossip that occurred there,” he hesitated; wondering whether Snow’s reasons were false and wondering what he would do with such information. But looking into his eager eyes, Tyrion saw himself, when he had been smaller and he would beg stories off of his uncles and Jaime. He realized that Snow was a boy still and that it was now Tyrion's chance at being the raconteur. 

Before he could start, the huge bell that resided in its tower rang, signaling the noon meal. "Come, Snow and I shall regale you with the most outrageous of scandals while we eat," he proclaimed.

The boy smiled and put out his hand. “You can call me Jon.” Tyrion gave Jon his hand and gave what he knew to be a grotesque smile. Setting off, Tyrion began a tale which included a honeycomb, a jackass, and a brothel; Jon slowing his pace to accommodate his short legs.

**Jon Snow**

_Slipping into Ghost is getting simpler than eating now,_ Jon thought, looking down to his food while his nose wrinkled at the smell of it. Gritting his teeth, he lowered his fork and speared the roasted and crackling pork on his plate.

_Both of his feet were ruins to behold. They were red and angry and they crackled like burning logs. His weak nephew was whimpering, half delirious from the pain and half dead. It was the eighth day after all. He did not expect the boy to survive much longer. His-_

Pushing it down, he put the morsel inside his mouth and chewed slowly. The taste was the same as it had ever been, and Jon should have been enjoying it but he couldn’t. Not with that damn memory stuck in his head. Chewing, his hands shook and his nausea grew. Hoping to put his mind off of it, he glanced around the Great Hall.

Yoren, the wandering crow as he called himself, had finally arrived at the castle; just a few hours before. He was sitting alongside them all at the high table as befitting a brother of the Night's Watch. In between, sat Tyrion and Maester Luwin who were having another fierce discussion. Something to do with turnips, if he was hearing correctly. Try as he might, Jon still hadn't been able to cast his eyes away from the snooped and sinister brother with a twisted shoulder. He was lice-ridden and smelled foul. His eyes black and hard; hair matted, coarse and black.

_-silver hair was matted with sweat and grime against his forehead. It had been oh so silky before he was introduced to the Black Cells and how the maidens had cooed and sighed at the sight of it. Now it lay ruined just like the rest of his body. Marred by barely healed lashes and bloody pinches, his skin was gilded with a variety of colors. Purple and blue for the recent bruises and an ugly yellow for the old ones. Red for grotesque burn marks and still flapping lacerations. Black for some of his veins and a crusty mix between orange and yellow, for the pus that had leaked from his infections. He smiled at his queen’s work and his breeches grew tighter at the sight of it. The king decided he would visit her tonight and the night after and perhaps the night after as well. Let his other queens grow jealous._

Jon closed his eyes and reached out to Ghost with the hope that the memory would recede back from where it came from. He had found that it could help occasionally and he hoped for it to help now.

_He was padding across the snow, following a scent. It was the scent of the squirrel and his belly growled at what it would taste like. How the blood would drip from his jaw, red and hot, and how the meat would be sweet. Not sweet as the sticky meat his brothers got in the long room but real sweet._

Drool pooled between his teeth.

_And he snapped at the air. Impatient to find the squirrel._

His nausea was gone, Jon found, as he opened his eyes and severed the link for now. His appetite had returned, his belly rumbled rather than heave and he stared at his food for a moment before wolfishly devouring it. It seemed as though Jon was feeding off of Ghost’s hunger as much as he was eating the dinner on his plate. Yet that didn’t bother him as much as the matter that he had failed to see with Ghost’s eyes.

It still bothered him that he could only see through Ghost while he was sleeping but Jon knew that his warging would only become stronger. It was not unlike learning to wield a sword. One would have to work and practice every day to become a skilled warrior. And he knew that it would be the same in this endeavour. With enough time, he would soon be able to use ravens and dogs. Or at least that was what he had seen. What he had experienced, through the eyes and life of another.

Still eating with borrowed hunger, he glanced around the Great Hall again. It was inhabited by new faces that belonged to new guards and new stablehands. It made the hall seem larger, as though more space had been built to accommodate more men. His eyes flickered back to the black brother and he could feel himself hiding his disappointment involuntarily. Yoren wasn’t what Jon envisioned black brothers to be. His first thought would always be of Uncle Benjen but he wondered just how many honorable men there were at the Wall. _How many men_ are _there at the Wall,_ he wondered, mind drifting back to those _things_ climbing up from the debris of a fallen wall.

To his right, sat Theon trying to regale one of his encounters in the brothel to Robb who was sitting in their father’s place. On the old throne of the Kings of Winter, made of cold stone and polished by every lord or King who had ever sat on it. Massive direwolves decorated the chair’s arms and Jon could remember a time when he had been frightened by the sight of it. _Rickon does not frighten easily,_ Jon mused as he watched his youngest brother poke the stone wolf in its eye while sitting on Robb’s lap.

Shaggydog was lying next to Rickon and appeared annoyed by the three-year-old's interest in the stone wolf. Grey Wind was placid and lay beneath the table; having devoured his own dinner, he was waiting for Robb to sneak him some off of his plate which his brother did. Ghost would have been here but Jon had wanted him out and hunting for his food; it would help grow his strength and he knew the godswood held no beasts large enough to harm his companion.

Seeing Robb sat upon the Lord’s seat reminded Jon of Lord Stark and their last conversation before his father had ridden south.

_A knock on the door and Jon answered it, inviting the person in. He had been expecting Maester Luwin to come with his runny potions and bitter herbs but it had been his father._

_“Father.” He closed his book and sat up hastily. A raised hand bid him stop and he did so. His father strode over to get the chair from his table and bring it to his bedside. Jon remained in place, self-conscious over his messy appearance and debating whether to ignore his father and make his covers._

_Next to his bedside, his father sat; pushing back the loose strands of his hair with his hand. Tired eyes found his own and only then did Jon notice how weary Ned Stark looked. Unkempt hair, worn clothes, and a pale face were only saved by his still straight shoulders; still proud. “Maester Luwin has told me your convalescence has been going well.”_

_“Aye, it has. And how’s Bran?”_

_“He’s still asleep. Maester Luwin tells me that the time of greatest danger has passed.” He looked mournful as he said that. “And if you’re anything to go by, then Bran shall wake,” he murmured._

_Jon nodded. He had nothing to add and so they sat there, silently reflecting on the matters on hand. His father's face was pensive and his eyes seemed lost in time. Briefly, Jon had considered telling his Lord Father of what he had seen. About lost heads, a burnt Winterfell, the Wall falling, but he kept silent. His father had enough worries on his mind as it was, and Jon had no wish for him to start doubting his bastard's sanity. Besides, he'd yet to have made any sense of what he'd seen._ Not to include the various memories, _Jon thought._

_“I’ve decided that you shall recover your strength here, Jon,” he broke the silence. “And after that, you shall be squire for one of my bannermen. I have not decided on which one yet.”_

Terror, _he thought, recalling a sea of blue eyes._ The end of the world, _he knew as he watched the Wall blow away like leaves on a tree. He remembered the call -_ Look North! - _jarringly inserted into his mind, impossible to forget. He could not stay in the North, he knew. There were feats to be accomplished, calls that had to be raised, defenses to be mustered and truths that had to be unveiled. He could not stay in the North, he knew, nor could he join the Night's Watch. His vows would limit him and his honour would chain him._ Chain me, _he realized._

_A pair of eyes were studying him. His father's grey-eyes, grey-eyes that could harden to stone or ease into a fog. So unlike Jon's dark, borderline black, ones. His father was expecting an answer. A protest or silent acceptance of orders. Jon decided on the former._

_“Father, is there no other option?” he asked awkwardly._

_“You don’t wish to be a knight, Jon?” his father asked with a soft perplexion._

_“Of course I wish to be a knight!” he answered before silently cursing his outburst. “I … I don’t want to stay in the North,” he offered lamely._

_“You wish to go South?”_

_"Well, not South, exactly." Thinking back to certain memories. The flowery words, extravagant harvests, and balls to mask a hideous odor of decadence. Jon had never seen those balls nor heard those flowery words, yet he could remember them. How they all possessed fake laughs and porcelain smiles. Then his mind flashed towards a different memory, this one more eastern as the spiralling towers and the people showed. Jon did not recognize it but the memory told him where it was and Jon knew that place could be a start. It was ancient and large and it held to its sorcerous ways. "I was thinking about Essos," he started. "I was wondering about touring the Free Cities."_

_Ned Stark was taken aback by his suggestion. His brows rose and something besides exhaustion and grief showed in his face. Though Jon could only guess what it was. "Essos is a large and dangerous place, Jon, especially for a boy of fourteen years."_

_“I’m almost fifteen, a man grown!”_

_“Yet you are my son, and I suppose you’ll always be a child in my eyes.” He was contemplating. “Perhaps, you would like being fostered at White Harbour. Lord Manderly’s sons are knights and you can squire for either. And I’ll be sure to tell them to take you on any trips they may make to Essos.”_

_Yet Jon wouldn’t have it. “Father, I wish to_ travel _through Essos. Not merely visit a port city on occasion,” he said. Moreover, he doubted that the Manderlys would travel as far as the place in his thoughts was._

_His father gave him a warm and wistful smile. “I suppose you want to replicate Aurane Waters’ travels.”_

_Jon smiled back. “I’m neither a sailor nor a captain.”_

_He sighed and said, “I suppose I can send with you a party of twenty men.” Turning serious, he said, “However, I expect you to fully recuperate here before leaving.” Jon nodded. “And you will listen and follow the person in command’s orders.” Jon nodded again._

_Standing, his father placed the chair back and strode towards the door. Reaching it, he looked back, saying, “We will be leaving on the morrow. Don’t forget to say your goodbyes with Sansa and Arya.”_

_Seeing his father leave, Jon remembered the feast. How his father had been holding his own head. How that woman with eyes like his had flitted between the tables and noticed him when no one else had. As his father turned to exit his chambers, Jon wanted to shout after him. He wanted to warn his father and ask who his mother was but he kept his tongue. And as his father closed the door, he wondered if he had done the right thing._

And he was still wondering that as his plate emptied.

Seeing Tyrion and Maester Luwin still in discussion and Robb juggling both Rickon and Theon, he decided to leave seeing as he had no other reason to stay. He stood, fastening his cloak and rounded the high table. His brother gave him a nod, one which he returned while Maester Luwin reminded him to have a short stroll before resting. After a fortnight of laying on his bed, the maester had had him taking strolls and walking for a designated distance before resting. It was to build his strength, which had withered away after two moons’ of slumber. Though Jon did not mind, soon enough he would be sparring with a sword. Though, strangely, his hands itched for a bow.

The trestle tables were slowly emptying as he passed by. Bellies filled and the need to converse with others quenched, they quietly headed off to their quarters. Wide doors of oak and iron were open as he passed it. Stepping out to the cold night he decided to visit the crypts. He had done so in his dreams after leaving the feast for the dead and it seemed right to do so now.

He passed by the Great Keep and skirted around the courtyard before reaching the First Keep and the lichyard in the drum tower’s shade. The keep was where Bran had fallen whereas the lichyard was where the Kings of Winter buried loyal servants. He found it disturbing that Bran would fall upon the graves of countless servants and felt it as a queer omen.

Passing by, he reached the old and heavy ironwood doors of the crypts and opened them; finding a gaping hole filled by darkness and hostilities. It was the darkness that was filled with what he knew to be resentment and sorrow that threatened to break his resolve. His heart was neither racing nor keeping a steady beat and his breath was forcibly calm. He felt his involuntary mask waver and he wondered whether he could call Ghost.

Jon could remember how the Kings of Winter had bellowed from their stone tombs, yelling for his removal. Yet that was not what had given him pause now, rather it was the sight of Aunt Lyanna’s statue with tears streaming down her cheeks. It worried him for reasons he could not explain but he had to go in there. He had to go and see whether those tears existed or whether they were too a figment of his imagination, just as the fog and the dragon and the apparating stag had been.

Swallowing hard, he descended stiffly down another well brimming with people long dead. Reaching the desired level, he stepped off of the spiralling stairs, panting from the exertion, and came to a halt before the rows of granite pillars and its vaulted ceiling. He walked briskly between the pillars, barely glancing towards the stone kings and their stone direwolves.

He reached the end and stared down at unsealed and bare tombs that would one day hold the bones of his father and Robb and the rest. Excluding him of course. He was a Snow, not a Stark. His grave would most like be a ditch or quickly dug hole, and his statue nonexistent.

Aunt Lyanna’s statue was every bit the same as it had been in his dreams, save for the tears. Tradition had dictated that only the Lords of Winterfell may have their statues reside in the crypts yet that had been broken before his Aunt’s death. Artos the Implacable had a statue of his made yet he had never held the title of Lord of Winterfell. And Jon was certain that there were more exceptions to that rule.

He stared at the sculpture intently, ignoring the cobwebs shivering after every draft of wind and the scuttling spiders. He waited for the tears to come, for the Kings of Winter to shout him out. He waited as his torch burned low and continued waiting as the cold picked up. Yet it was all for naught. His aunt did not have tears for her bastard nephew and the old kings most likely knew of his impending departure. He would receive no acknowledgment. They would wait until he was gone to snigger and curse behind his back.

Walking back and up the stairs, he froze mid-step as his mind cleared. It felt much like when the raven had unchained him on the castle walls. He felt as though a trance had been lifted and he was suddenly baffled as to why he had come here. Those tears and shouts and curses were only a dream. A worrying and frightening one to be sure but not unlike others he'd had in the past. _Yet that doesn’t explain these memories,_ he thought. Nor did it explain his link with Ghost.

Mayhaps he had hoped that these tears would exist and they would serve as evidence to his claims. Claims of the future, claims of wizardry, Perhaps then he could warn his father and Robb without being looked on as mad. If he shouted out his grim omens, they would only worry about his mental well-being and would disregard what he said as figments of the imagination. _Are they figments of my imagination,_ he thought grimly. If they were, then he was insane, simply put. But if they weren’t simply concoctions of his mind and he didn’t regard them delicately…

Jon couldn’t waste his chance, and he struggled to find the answer to the question blocking his path. How could Jon make them take his warnings seriously? He wondered if there was a new memory for him in that well. One that could help with his dilemma. But nothing came to the forefront of his mind and his thinking tailed off as he finished his ascent. He would dwell on that matter later, he thought.

Readjusting his cloak, he walked steadily towards the Great Keep. He had already exerted himself quite a bit and his breathing grew shallower with each step. His cheeks were flushed he knew and his hair windblown. Stopping and leaning on a well, his ears perked up when he heard the dogs in the kennel barking. He glanced up at the oddity and his breath caught.

“Fire,” he muttered. The Library Tower was on fire. Distantly, he heard shouts of fire and hurried footsteps. The dogs hadn’t stopped barking and he wondered briefly if Tyrion was inside.

_He smelled the smoke drifting through the window as he sprinted down the corridor. There was a faint scent of sour red water coming from one of the rooms but he ignored it and continued past._

Jon spasmed and fell to the muddy ground, disorientated by the suddenness of his warging. He had seen through Ghost's eyes and he was in the Great Keep, following the scent of horses. Panting, Jon closed his eyes and reached out, curious as to why Ghost had pulled him to the Great Keep.

_A scream. It belonged to the red-haired woman. The one that had looked down at him and his siblings with worry. He continued running and was reaching the open door when he almost collided with his unnamed brother. He had golden eyes and he regarded his brother for barely a moment before he slipped into the room._

_He padded forward quickly and saw the red-haired woman with red bloody hands on the floor while his brother tumbled with the man who smelled of horses and carried a sharp metal claw. A simple jerk of his brother’s head and the man who smelled like a horse was dying. His blood spraying on the woman’s face._

_He neared the man's face but didn't bite him. He could feel his human urging him not to so he went around and closed his teeth around the man's leg. His unnamed brother was licking off the blood on the woman's hands. He pulled him away to the side as his brother jumped onto his human's bed. He padded forward to the door and stayed put. The smoke was still in the air._

“Jon! Jon! Wake up, damn you.” Eyes snapping open, he stood up abruptly with a pair of hands on his right arm. He almost lost his balance and fell again but more hands shot out to grab hold of him and held him steady. The dogs were still barking and men were shouting for water and buckets. He found blue eyes and almost threw himself back before realizing that it was only Robb; with hair flapping into his eyes and cheeks flushed. 

“Jon, are you alright?” He turned to one of the guards, not waiting for an answer, “Get the maester. Quick!” _I’m fine,_ he thought as his wits returned along with the reason for his lying on the ground.

“No. No. No, Robb, I’m fine,” he stammered out. “I’m fine but your mother, she’s been … she’s been attacked. In Bran’s room. The direwolves-” he coughed realizing how parched he suddenly was. “The direwolves-”

“What?! What, she’s been attacked?!” He could hear the confusion and fear in equal amounts. “How do you know?!” he asked with wide blown eyes. Jon could see his fear now along with his confusion. He wished to explain to him his warging. He wished to warn him of the visions. But right now, he wished for him to go and help his mother.

“Robb, that’s not important right now. I’ll explain later,” he choked out, his throat was incredibly dry and he wished for some water. Robb looked torn but did not prove indecisive. He ordered two guards to take him to his chambers and rushed with the rest of the men to the Great Keep. Jon saw the maester and Ser Rodrik join them as he slowly walked to his chambers with the help of the guards. They regarded him warily.

He entered his chambers as the guards stood outside and sighed audibly. Climbing into his bed, he closed his eyes and resisted the urge to warg Ghost. He was too tired. All he knew was that Lady Stark had been attacked and that Robb was now wary of him. Along with the guards who had been near enough to hear. He would have to explain it all, he knew and realized as he fell asleep that Robb may now believe his warnings.

Jon hoped he would.


	3. New Faces in Old Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waymar is being mistreated (or so he thinks), Aurane crosses off some things on his to do list, Jon makes a fool and watches the dawn from the Wall, and Benjen leaves an old friend

**Waymar Royce**

“There’s nothing out there, Lord Commander.”

The Old Bear’s lips pursed and Waymar wondered if he had been expecting anything different. The Lord Commander’s solar was tense and filled with all the officers in the Night’s Watch. _Well, except those on duty or not deemed important enough_ , he thought, pleased that he had been sent for. They were all here to receive Ser Jaremy Rykker’s report. It had been nigh seven moons’ turns since Benjen Stark had ridden out with half a dozen men and since then there had been half a dozen rangings after him. All but two had returned.

The likes of Qhorin Halfhand had scoured through the Haunted Forest to the Fist of the First Men but had found nothing. And Ser Jaremy’s ranging had been the last. Leading eight men and a pack of dogs, they had set off two moon’s turn ago, searching not only for Benjen Stark but for wildlings.

“Nothing? No wildlings? No raiders?” Bowen Marsh asked. His face was a deeper red today, more akin to a rotting grape than a ripe pomegranate.

"Nothing," Ser Jaremy repeated gravely. "We passed through more than a dozen villages and hamlets. Same story each one. Cold hearths, open doors and picked clean. Each and every last one of them." A ripple of murmurs and muttering broke through but it was quieted after the brothers saw the Lord Commander's silence and his glazed look. Even nearing the age of seventy, he had the strength of a bear and was held in high regard by all the brothers. So it was disquieting to see Mormont so despondent. 

Despite the air growing stuffy from the number of men and the raging fire, Waymar felt a chill pass through his bones. And he knew that the other brothers were feeling the same. Their First Ranger was gone and nearly a dozen more brothers had failed to return just this year. He knew that Gared, the deserter whom Lord Stark had taken the head of, was already the fourth this year. Villages and hamlets were derelict and the wildlings were damn near silent. He'd even overheard Chett speaking of Maester Aemon's findings; that the long summer was coming to an end. 

Silence dominated the room. Not even that damned raven deemed to speak. The men shared the same grim expression. "Leave all of you," he said brusquely, scratching his beard. "I will address this matter in the common hall, later this night.”

Waymar stood and made for the door, walking amid a sea of black. As he passed beneath the door, he heard the Old Bear bidding certain officers stay. Pausing, he craned his head back and saw the high officers, Othell Yarwyck, Bowen Marsh and the acting First Ranger Jaremy Rykker. He expected to be called so he turned back only for the door to slam shut in his face. Waymar fought down his ire and headed on out to the castle. There were duties to attend to he reminded himself and off he went still feeling down that he hadn't been named.

It was not as though Waymar disagreed with the people that the Lord Commander had singled out. They were the commanding officers of their order and that was to be respected. Yet, he felt as though he had been snubbed and he had not come to the Wall to be snubbed consistently.

Waymar had yet to be sent on a ranging beyond the Wall. Instead, the First Ranger had deemed it best for him to be sent on patrols of the Wall. He had solemnly accepted the role, assuming that he would begin his true rangings soon and that he would be leading parties not long after.

After nearly half a year of learning the ropes and patrolling the Wall, he'd had enough and wanted to seek his glory by fighting wildlings like the Weeper and Alfyn CrowKiller. And it seemed that the gods had blessed him when scouts spoke of a band of raiders that were fleeing towards the north. They were said to be wounded and in dire shape; the idea sparked in his thoughts almost immediately. Visiting the Lord Commander, he had lobbied for the chance to lead a ranging to rid the Haunted Forest of the rapists and thieves.

The Old Bear had given serious thought to it, he knew but Benjen Stark had dissuaded him with a different plan. Rather than sent Waymar out on command of his first ranging, he had proposed leading a group of nine himself. They would disperse after dealing with the band of raiders and then split into parties of three and each head off in different directions. One as far east as the Narrow Sea, another as far west as Craster's Keep, while Benjen Stark's ranging would cover far north. Till the Antler, he had said. Despite not being in command, he had still wished to be a part of the ranging but Benjen Stark had refused.

Instead, he had been tasked with assisting Ser Jaremy Rykker on the duties of the First Ranger. Waymar had been surprised and satisfied with the new duties and had expected a larger role in maintaining the order of rangers yet soon found that his duties would be more fit for a scribe or a maester.

Reports, letters, paperwork, currency management. It had appeared that Ser Jaremy Rykker hadn't had the patience for 'irrelevant scribble' as he had put it. Instead, Ser Jaremy was to work with the rangers and keep up the erratic patrol schedules while Waymar was sent to deal with Bowen Marsh on supplies and Othell Yarwyck on sparing builders for the patrols.

Long and tedious, the paperwork and negotiating had Waymar up till the candles decorating his quarters were mere stubs. Some nights, as he undressed to sleep, he pondered over sending a letter to his father. But he always scolded himself afterward. Rather than send a disgruntled letter to the Old Bear, his father would surely send a letter chastising him. It would include phrases such as 'you will get what you deserve' and 'becoming involved in the duties of the Night's Watch is highly improper for a lord of the Vale'. His father was right but still, he grew more and more frustrated each time he was passed over not only for command but for a simple ranging beyond the Wall.

Occasionally, Waymar would suggest a change to the scouts and patrols and Ser Jaremy would ponder on his suggestion before calling it not without merit. Before proceeding to list gravely why it would not be ideal nor plausible. The flaws in his plans were varied from not enough rangers to not having considered certain circumstances. Though, he would encourage Waymar to keep thinking of new ideas.

Descending the steps of the Lord Commander’s Tower, he readjusted his sable cloak in the bitter wind. The Wall was all grey and chipped ice today. The clouds gathered thickly and if it had been Waymar’s first day at the Wall, he’d have believed that there was snow coming. Yet, that was unlikely to happen today, mayhaps on the morrow if the clouds in the distance were anything to go by. Besides, Dywen had failed to smell any snow, and the seven themselves knew how much that gnarled forester loved to boast of his nostrils.

Walking to his quarters, he passed by the armory where the steady blows of the hammer were matched in pitch by Donal Noye’s bellows at his apprentice. He reached the courtyard, where the hammer was replaced by the sword and Ser Alliser’s sharp tongue contrasted the smith’s huge lungs.

“Ser Alliser,” he called in greeting, hoping the old man would simply nod back in his way.

"Ser Waymar," he replied, barely acknowledging him. The older knight hadn't shown his dislike when he had first arrived, likely due to his father's presence and his standing. The sinewy man of fifty had sent him up against a few of the recruits and then later himself when he had bested them all. The man was capable, there was no doubt, but after their decidedly even spar the man had stalked off with disdain clear in his black eyes.

While he had been exempted from Ser Alliser's harsh training, the same did not apply for the rest of the recruits. They would come to the yard every day and leave it twice as sore and bruised as the day before. Ser Alliser trained them to the bare minimum, only barking instructions that they barely understood and throwing one another at each other to spar. Add that to his lack of humor and mean-spiritedness, he came to dislike the man himself.

Once, curious as to why Ser Alliser had been assigned as the master-at-arms, he had asked Ser Jaremy when delivering his finished papers. He had asked why Ser Alliser hadn’t been sent off beyond the Wall as a common ranger but Ser Jaremy had only a sardonic smile and an answer to be full of excuses.

“I’ve known Ser Alliser since before the Rebellion and the man wasn’t always like that. Being sent here was a bitter taste for him to swallow and besides,” his smile crept up, “If we sent him out ranging, he’d most likely end up fighting every wildling he came across. Even the ones that are friendly with the Watch.” _Yes,_ he thought, _but he could also encounter the likes of the Weeper and Harma Dogshead. He could kill them or they could kill him._ But he silently admonished himself for thinking ill of a brother. "Besides that point, Ser Jaremy has many friends and allies, they would not allow him to simply wallow around as a common ranger," he explained.

As he reached the Tower of the Guards, which lay next to the Wall and the kingsroad and protected the wooden stairs, he glanced back towards the sounds of steel. He saw certain recruits holding furtive looks and hiding smirks. He felt his annoyance grow as he saw what looked to be japes centering him. His sympathy for their condition under Ser Alliser lessened.

Soon they would be his brothers though in his mind he still pictured Robar and Andar. Ser Alliser was making room for the dozen or so new men that Yoren was marching up the kingsroad and would most likely arrive by the morrow. A raven had been sent from Winterfell a moon's turn or so back from Tyrion Lannister, with written regards that he would be visiting the Wall. Waymar was quite keen on seeing the Imp. Wondering how improper it would be for him to grab a blunted sword and pound them all into the ground, he turned and entered the tower.

His quarters were near the top, just below Benjen Stark’s own residence which was essentially the entire top floor. Most of the brothers slept in the Flint Barracks but that was not to say that the Guard Tower was empty. In it resided Bowen Marsh, Thoren Smallwood and a host of other officers and longer serving brothers. Ser Jaremy kept his quarters in the Lord Commander’s Keep.

Light poured through his window and illuminated his desk along with the dust dancing merrily in the air. The light from the window allowed him to forego the use of candles on good days. The day was one of those, he saw as he sat down to fulfill the scribe’s duties. Thoren Smallwood had become acting First Ranger when Ser Jaremy had gone sweeping through the Haunted Forest and the man had taken up a small load of Waymar’s work. Not that significant but it did allow him to sleep before the hour of the bat.

Despite his sour thoughts on his tasks, he would not shirk them and so he went over every report old and new and wrote the corresponding paperwork to be archived. Ser Jaremy had yet to file his report so he was free from that however there was a raven from Eastwatch-by-the-sea.

_Sailed into Pentos with strong winds and free of troubles. Bought much grain and supplies but were harassed by several Tyroshi men. A crew member was killed and the first mate was injured. Dealt with it with the customs officer. Tyroshi were suspected pirates and thieves as we sailed away._

Waymar wondered if there had been other cases of brothers becoming involved in spats and looked over some older records from Eastwatch. He found a few but noticed that they spanned several years and decided to dismiss the case due to the heat of the moment and perhaps some drinking. Depositing the report into the archive, he deemed it appropriate enough to bring it before the acting First Ranger. Whoever that was at this moment. He pondered whether increasing the number of rangers sent on these trips would deter harassment. If so, he knew who he would petition to be sent on those trips.

By the time he had finished, he had been forced to light several candles. The light that passed through his window had grown weak with half of the work still undone. The weather outside had worsened. The Wall had become greyer and sterner and the wind had picked up. It seemed that they would see snow before the sunrise after all.

He arranged his desk as he had seen his father doing in his solar at Runestone and departed for the common hall. Entering it, he was met with roaring fires and muted brothers. The message that the Lord Commander would address them during the evening meal had spread and they all waited anxiously for it. The stew was quite crusty when Three-Fingered Hobb ladled it into his bowl but he had nothing to say. It may not have compared to what the cooks at Runestone could serve up but it was hot and it filled the belly.

Sitting next to Ser Mallador Locke, Donal Noye and several others he emptied his bowl quickly, casting glances towards the high table from time to time. Yet, the Lord Commander appeared intent on finishing his meal beforehand.

"Brothers!" the Old Bear yelled suddenly, capturing the voice of the bear that adorned his house's sigil. The entire hall immediately quieted. Though Waymar could hear one of his brother's breathing and he wished he had told the man to hold his breath before the Old Bear had continued. "As you all know; Benjen Stark has not been found. Ser Jaremy returned past noon and has informed me that the Haunted Forest is silent. They are probably marshaling under Mance Rayder, far to the North.

At the mention of Mance Rayder, a few hisses went up through the hall and one man cursed him as a bastard and traitor. Mance Rayder had deserted long before Waymar had even conceived the idea of joining the Watch but he could not help but feel a strong hatred for the would-be king. He had spent his entire life at the Wall and then abandoned his post for reasons unknown. Had he no honor? No wits? He had joined the enemy for what he surely knew to be a foolish attempt at playing king. Death was his only fate while the Night's Watch alongside the North would bleed for it.

The Lord Commander continued. “We don’t know where exactly this King-beyond-the-Wall is gathering but we shall find out and we shall prepare. And we shall push them back and scatter the wildlings back to the hamlets and rocks from where they came,” he boomed. A cheer went up from the crowd but it quieted immediately. The Watch’s spirit was sinking. “For now Benjen Stark is missing and I have decided that Ser Jaremy will continue his duties as acting First Ranger.

Acting, he noticed and so did many of his brothers.

"Secondly, Qhorin Halfhand will be joining us here at Castle Black. He is a senior officer at Shadow Tower and he will be treated as such here." That sent a cascade of whispering through the hall. Qhorin Halfhand was a legend amongst the Watch and there was no doubt that the brothers believed in the experienced ranger. Though truth be told, Waymar only wondered whether he could convince the man into including him in his rangings. 

Rambling a bit more on some negligent matters, Mormont bid them good night and left the hall. The mood was lifted as opposed to before as certain brothers were now yelling and boasting of which wildling chieftains they would kill and others japing by asking if they would like to be cremated or buried. He had half a mind to join them but he remembered their position and his reports.

“My lord,” he greeted the Lord Commander. He was feeding his raven some corn which Waymar had thought strange at first before realizing that the bird itself was stranger.

"Ser Jaremy is getting his rest, I presume." He looked towards Waymar and he only nodded. Leaving the common hall, he had caught Ser Jaremy and asked the officer when he wanted a recounting of the reports. Weary eyes had glanced towards Waymar before waving a black-gloved hand, bidding him to speak with him before noon on the morrow. Donning his thick and greying cloak, he had informed Waymar that the Lord Commander had sent for him.

“I assume there’s a reason you have requested my presence, my lord,” he asked with genuine curiosity. Waymar had only spoken to the Lord Commander a handful of times. Most came when he had just ridden into Castle Black with his father and a score of Royce men.

“Aye, there is.” He stopped feeding the bird and sat behind his desk. The bird flew to nest upon one of the heavy drapes that shielded the room from light. It screeched, “ _Corn! Corn! Corn!”_ Mormont shook his head, disgusted. “Ignore him,” he grumbled. “He’d be too fat to fly if you gave him corn each time he asked.”

“The reason I’m here, my lord?” Diverting the conversation from talks of ravens and corn.

“Sit,” the man scowled as Waymar did so. “Tell me, Ser Waymar. How are you handling your duties?” Mormont looked straight at him and Waymar decided there to be no use in lies.

“I find them tedious, my lord. Not at all what I had expected when I came to join the Watch,” he shrugged. Keeping his expression even.

Mormont snorted. “Tedious they are but not at all useless.” He scratched at his white beard and looked to his right where a small window displayed snow blowing swiftly. “When Qhorin gets here, I want you to work with him. I want you to go over old records. The ones from hundreds of years back, the ones that detail wildling movement during a King-beyond-the-Wall’s reign. You and Qhorin will go over them and liken them to what's happening now.” The Old Bear looked back at him. “I’m sure that many of those records will be in the library. Consult with Maester Aemon. I’m sure he knows where they were stored.” His eyes looked down onto what Waymar noticed was a map.

"Yes, Lord Commander." He could not reign in his bite. Mormont glanced up from the map, frowning.

“If you have something on your tongue, spit it out,” he said.

"I was wondering why my lord."

Mormont stared at him before looking down pointedly at the map and Waymar leaned in. "This silence," he started waving his hand over the map that showed the lands north of the Wall. "It's frustrating. We sit at the Wall like blind beggars, sending out our rangers like a panhandler would thrust out his arms and we hope for something, anything." Waymar saw how it was eating away at Mormont, the Lord Commander's tone was bitter, to say the least. "Our best rangers are disappearing and so are the rangers that we send after them." The Lord Commander shook his head. "Enough, I say. I've decided that we need a Great Ranging and Qhorin is coming to help organize it. You'll help him do so," he finished, looking at Waymar.

 _A Great Ranging,_ he thought. There hadn’t been one in living memory and now the Lord Commander was calling for it. _What a time to be here,_ he thought with a low thrill. A King-beyond-the-Wall, a Great Ranging. There would be plenty of glory and battles to go around and for a split second, Waymar felt more generously towards Mance Rayder; uncaring of the amount of blood that would be spilt and the lives that it would destroy.

Yet, that low thrill soon was pushed aside by bitterness. He would be organizing it, he thought. _Organizing._ He wondered how many battles would be waged in the decrepit library and how much blood would be spilt in his office, on his desk, in the most guarded and fortified tower in Castle Black.

“Ser Waymar,” he called brusquely. He looked up from the map, meeting the Old Bear’s gaze. “I say it again, if you have something on your tongue, spit it out.”

Bitterness welled up and he felt the need to lash out, suddenly and violently. A deep breath. _I need my tongue to do the lashing,_ he thought. “I had been hoping for a command of my own. A ranging beyond the Wall.” He stopped, taking another deep breath to control his anger. “I am tired of my tasks. It's been over a year since I joined and I am a _knight_ , sworn under the light of the Seven, not a scribe or maester whom my duties would be a fit for. I am due for a command."

Lord Mormont leaned back in his chair and twisted his head towards the window to his right again, letting out a large sigh. “I sometimes wonder if I’d been this short-sighted and vain in my youth. All the young are concerned about is winning glory by finding the biggest and baddest man and besting him.” Waymar bristled ready to protest but a raised hand bid him stop. He sighed again and rubbed his rather shiny bald head. “I am aware that you are a true knight. None of the brothers or officers speak of you visiting Mole Town for buried treasure.” He blushed slightly. “Nor do any of the officers speak ill of your abilities.

“Do not put notions in your head that I am assigning you this work to shame you or deny you your due. You’ll end up coming with us on the ranging anyways so you need not rush.” Waymar opened his mouth to speak but the Old Bear cut him off. “Tell me on the morrow lad, when you’ve had a bit of time to think.” He leaned in scowling, “Would you prefer being a common ranger or being in command?”

**Aurane Waters**

“There was once this drunk in a brothel in Volantis, who had deemed the whore he had paid for to be unable to get his cock up.” His sailors were all paying rapt attention. “So out he was, bumbling around the corridors. Only a loose tunic covering his fat belly while his pale legs and limp manhood were bare for all to see.” Haten had lowered his hand and Aurane let his eyes drift towards the exposed card. The poor boy didn’t notice a thing. “He was shouting for a different whore to come and suck his cock, and for more wine as he had seemed to have left his cup behind. And naturally, this drew attention. Several doors creaked open and there was a multiple of heads peeking out, wondering what in the gods’ name was going on.” _7 of a stag, 5 of trout, 8 of rose, and a red dragon,_ he sneaked from Haten’s cards. “Suddenly, a whore came rushing down the corridor, and as she passed by, someone shouted ‘Don’t forget the wine.’”

His men laughed and he cracked a smile himself. Partly due to the jape and partly due to seeing Haten's hand. Their round table was set up in an alehouse near the docks. The ale was good and his presence assured the men serving in the Royal Fleet that they would be unbothered by the Gold Cloaks.

Besides himself and Haten, there were three others still in the game. Aurane was sure of winning, he had been counting the cards and he was aware that only four aces were left. Haten had his ace with the red dragon but the rest were with him.

The door burst open violently and he lazily lifted his eyes from the table. Through the smoke and haze of the tavern, he saw several Gold Cloaks streaming in. Several of his men stood up while others drew on hostile expressions. He heard a few curses from the smallfolk and Aurane shook his head at the relations between the City Watch and the smallfolk. _Janos Slynt deserves a noose,_ he thought indignantly.

A tall, lantern-jawed figure with a still right hand passed through the door, pausing to find him before marching over.

“Captain,” Jacelyn greeted curtly.

“My Captain of Mud.” He returned enthusiastically. “How fares the city?”

He ignored the barb. “The King’s procession has reached the city. I’ve been told that the new Hand to the King is riding at the head of it.”

“And the King?” He inquired.

“No word so far, though he isn’t near his Hand, it seems.” Aurane snorted and shook his head. The incident at the Ruby Ford had trickled into the city and Aurane had laughed at the twat of a prince. Disarmed and beaten by a younger girl and her pup. They said that the King had ordered the wrong wolf executed and that Lord Stark had been furious. _That’s what happens when you upset your loyal lords,_ he chuckled at the stag king's incompetence. Though, any event involving the Queen was bound to end in such a manner. She had a knack for driving away loyalty and competence and replacing it with greed and foolishness. "He did send his brother, the Lord Renly ahead. M'lord arrived early in the day and rumour says that he's bearing a royal command. There's to be a council meeting as soon as the Lord Hand is ready." Aurane looked away from his cards and at the taller man to see him nodding.

Standing, he grabbed his satchel and placed his cards on the table. A mixture of groans, curses, and congratulations flowed in but he turned his attention to Jacelyn. "My thanks, Jacelyn," he said earnestly. The captain nodded. Turning to his men, he ordered Haten to collect his winnings and bring it to his cabin and ordered the rest to bed. Their shift had ended not so long ago and their next would begin soon after dusk.

Jacelyn drew him closer as they made their way to the exit, his right hand stood limp while his left wrapped itself around his shoulder. His watchmen followed orderly. “You’ll be wanting to know that Littlefinger made another payment to Janos.” The name ‘Janos’ was dripping with venom.

“Do you know how much?”

"No, but you told me to report all the bribes I could, so," he shrugged. The heat on the streets was sweltering and Aurane gladly disentangled himself. Jacelyn squinted at the sun. "Was it this warm in Essos?" he asked, grimacing.

“Warmer,” Aurane replied, grinning. Jacelyn shook his head. The Gold Cloaks closed ranks around their captain who mounted his grey gelding before riding off. Mounting his own horse, he felt lighter in his cloth tunic and thin leather vest though still his clothes clung to him like the stench of shit clung to the city. Mail armor and heavy woolen cloaks fared poorly in the warm weather. Whatever small gust of wind came their way would fail to penetrate through the thick layers.

Riding swiftly through the streets, he found solace in the rushing air which made his loose tunic flap violently. He was forced to slow however at the clogged streets and there his silver hair caught the gleam of the sun. Children, playing barefoot and bareback in the alleys caught sight of his hair and ran to follow him, yelling out his name shrilly. Even many of the merchants, whores, and craftsmen stopped to yell out his name. The whores tried to entice him, the merchants tried to invite him to their counters while the craftsmen showed off their trades. A few began chanting.

Aurane smiled and waved, slowly moving along. A pouch of silver stags hung from his belt and he drew into it, flinging the coins to the ragged children. They squealed with delight and Aurane smiled wider. They would not starve come night, he thought, and besides the silver he carried was insignificant. Pennies to him. _They view me like Ryan Redwyne and Aemon the Dragonknight,_ he thought and he saw no reason to contradict their view.

Sun still gleaming off his hair, he reached the towering bronze doors of the Red Keep. The procession was long and lumbering but he nimbly passed by them. His horse was sure-footed. The courtyard was alive with shouting and crates and packages being unloaded. Men cursed and horses nickered as he found a stable hand. Tossing the boy a stag, he hurried down the corridors of the Red Keep.

Garnet-eyed Valyrian sphinxes flanking the entrance reminded him how richly the small council chamber was furnished. Lush Myrish carpets covered the floor while beautifully woven tapestries from the Free Cities hung from the walls. A screen from the Summer Isles adorned with hundreds of beasts cavorted in one corner. Even the table and chairs were rich with gold-threaded patterns, velvet-covered backs, and varnished mahogany. He knew how odd he appeared in his loose cloth tunic, thin sun-beaten vest, sea sprayed breeches and boots. Yet, he preferred the comfort of his light clothes as to the sweat of his silks.

“My lords,” he made himself known to the five seated at the table. Lord Renly held in his hand a tightly sealed scroll while Varys gave him his usual smile that was as pleasant as his perfume. Littlefinger held his mirthless smile while the Grand Maester was surprisingly alert. _I suppose he just came from a nap,_ he reasoned.

“Lord Aurane,” Ned Stark stood to greet him.

“Oh, I’m not a lord, Lord Stark, simply a captain,” he replied.

“A captain of great worth if the tales we have heard are true. My children sing your praises frequently and with great awe.”

“I’m humbly honored, Lord Hand,” he said, placing his right hand over his heart. Lord Renly laughed.

“I have heard that only a pious man is humbler, Aurane.”

“Or an ugly whore,” Littlefinger supplied to Renly’s jibe. The captain noticed Pycelle’s gaze drooping.

“Will you be joining us then?” inquired Lord Stark.

“My lord, it is highly improper for anyone but the King to appoint members to the small council!” Pycelle protested hotly despite his gaze to have been faltering just a moment prior. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Considering Lord Stannis’ absence, I believe it makes sense to include the man in command of the Royal Fleet to Small Council meetings. I’m sure Captain Aurane can fill the role admirably and temporarily,” Lord Stark argued. Pycelle appeared as though he wished to press the matter before bowing his head and conceding.

“Although one has to question why the captain is here in the first place,” Lord Baelish noted just as Aurane sat.

“Well, Lord Baelish, it was my intention to carry out Lord Stannis’ last command to me. Which was to give the Lord Hand a report of the Royal Fleet as soon as he arrived.” He procured a stack of papers from his satchel and placed it on the mahogany table. Littlefinger eyed the stack before taking it and passing it onto the Lord Hand, pausing only to take a glance at the wages.

“I see that you have increased your spending from just a moon’s turn ago, Captain,” remarked Littlefinger.

Aurane gave the master of coin a cool look. “If you’ll recall, Lord Baelish, before our Master of Ships departed, he purchased three new galleys for the Royal Fleet. He tasked me with manning the ships so I had to take up near two dozen new sailors and promote new officers. If it calms your mind, I’ll have you know that those ships are manned only to the bare requirements.” Littlefinger shrugged.

Lord Renly cleared his throat. “Have you sated your curiosities, Baelish?”

He smiled, “Of course, Renly, the royal command.”

“As I was saying, our king sent me ahead with all haste with an urgent task.” He placed his scroll on the table and Lord Stark reached for it. Aurane gazed intently at the Lord Hand as he broke the seal and read the command, his brows climbing high and anger flashing through his eyes. _My, my, Lord Stark. Didn't a soul tell you of the nature of King's Landing? How the stink of shit is only a material cover for the immaterial stink of corruption. You'll have to do better._ He tsked silently.

Sitting silently, he observed as Lord Stark came to know of the debt the Crown was in and how frivolous his fat friend was. The tourney was truly extravagant and the captain briefly wondered whether to participate. Forty thousand to the victor of the joust, twenty thousand for the runner up and another twenty for the champion of the melee. But he knew how much the king hated his sight. His silver hair, his glory, his resemblance to the late Prince Rhaegar was uncanny it seemed as Robert Baratheon had almost flown into a murderous rage when first laying sight upon him.

It also meant that he was denied residence in the Red Keep. Though, he did not mind all too greatly. Sleeping on a hammock had become the norm for him and he disliked the softness of the feather beds. Too soft, they were in his opinion.

“I will speak with Robert,” Ned said. “This tourney is an extravagance the realm cannot afford.” _Yes,_ he thought. Ninety thousand gold pieces. That was near the amount _he’d_ stolen from the treasury. Though it still paled when likened to Littlefinger’s thieving.

Lord Stark dismissed the council harshly before softening his tone and walking off abruptly. Littlefinger was the first to go, springing to his feet and hurrying away with an air of not hurrying. Lord Renly followed him and he stood as Pycelle was shuffling to his feet. He rapped four fingers on the table three times when Varys slithered to his slippered feet and swiftly turned toward the door.

His horse was waiting ready for him as he reached the courtyard, just as he had instructed. The ride towards the Street of Silk was swift and quick. Dusk was coming soon and so the markets were closing. It would soon be the time for taverns, inns, and brothels as the nightlife began earnestly under the striking pale moon and glittering stars.

An ornate lamp of gilded metal and scarlet glass hung from the door that led to Chataya's. It was a two-story building with a stone ground floor and a timber upper floor. Tying his horse to the hitching post, he entered; filling his nose with an exotic smell of spice. An old man was playing the pipes while three whores were playing tiles by the leaded window.

Chataya was on his arm in an instance, guiding him towards the turret room, saying: “Captain Aurane, I assume you are here on your usual business?” Aurane couldn’t help but smile at the coyness of the woman. A Summer Islander with the skin tone and accent to prove it and a sharpness that made a man question why she was a simple brothel owner. That was until knowledge of the Summer Isles and their liberal religion began pouring off the woman’s tongue like honey off a spoon.

“Yes, the _usual_ business and I would have it conducted in my preferred room,” he answered with an easy smile. The woman was shorter than him by half a hand, yet her large hair seemed to make up for it.

“Marei?” He nodded before requesting a bath. Drops of water were still dripping from his long locks when Marei entered the turret room. She had green eyes and gold white hair with porcelain skin that seemed to dare you to bruise it.

“Captain,” she said solemnly with a small hint of blush and Aurane could only nod and smile sweetly. That was what attracted him to her more than the Alayaya or Dancy or Jayde. She was too solemn. Other patrons undoubtedly thought of their own pleasure while she spread her legs and lay still beneath. But he preferred licking all of her, to tease her and make her tense up when he brushed over her sweet spot. To build up her release, and keep it from her grasp and to suck on her perky teats; making her gasp and moan. Then to enter and ravish her when she couldn’t bear anymore, to have her yelling his name. Aurane loved to please as much as he loved to be pleased and only with Marei could he be certain that he had truly pleased a woman.

He had her twice on the great canopied featherbed and once more later when they were washing up in the copper tub that Chataya had provided for him. Each time she yelled and cried his name. And after each time, he found himself wanting her more and more. She was a talented lover. Her teeth never grazed his cock when she had him in her mouth and she seemed to have already learned his sensitive spots.

His cock was stirring for a fourth when they began to dress but Aurane noted that it was almost time and he quieted his urges. “Marei, I brought a gift for you,” he said as he handed her a pouch full of gold. Reaching over to his satchel, he snatched the book inside and presented it to her. “ _Wonders_. It was written by Lomas Longstrider and details the seven wonders of the gods.” She could read which was quite rare among whores.

Aurane suddenly felt his tongue go dry and heavy. It refused to move and he felt his heart race as though he was still a green boy. He could only stand still as she took it shyly and thanked him, before leaving. Her exit broke his trance. Sighing and dumbstruck at his tied tongue, he sat on the featherbed, cursing his tongue for betraying him. _She’s the one with few words, not I,_ he thought.

“That was quite the gesture, Captain.”

Aurane looked up, seeing the eunuch step out of the wardrobe without the quietest of creaks. He was differently dressed now. Gone were his powders, soft slippers, and sickeningly sweet perfume. In their stead stood an unrecognizable man with badly shaven cheeks, rough spun woolen clothes and an overwhelming stench of sweat. A cowl covered his face and his voice was low and strange. Truly, the man was a wonder. _A cockless wonder,_ he thought, remembering one of Baelish’s jibes.

“Lord Varys,” he greeted even though he wasn’t a lord. He rose and went for the flagon of wine that Chataya had sent. It was an exquisite vintage of Arbor Gold. He didn’t bother offering the eunuch any, he always declined.

“Have you any word from Dragonstone?” Varys asked.

Aurane shook his head. “Not from Dragonstone itself. Dragonstone is closed. All ships that come within sight are forced ashore and kept. Lord Stannis has sent discreet commands for his bannermen to arrive at the island as soon as favorable.”

“And Monford will be attending?”

Aurane nodded. “We need to know why Lord Stannis has fled the city. Aside from Jon Arryn’s death, that is.” He took a sip of wine and savored the taste. Brushing a damp lock of hair out of his face, he twisted to face Varys. “Right, I called you for two things, Lord Varys. A request and a question.” Varys bowed and he nodded. “Firstly, I need you to weed out Bealish’s spies in the Royal Fleet.”

Varys raised his brows and considered it for a moment. “Even if I give you names, it is not possible to be rid of them all,” he said. “And I warn you, Captain, it will neither be easy nor as quickly done as you would prefer.”

“And I am aware of that, Varys. Do not fret over their fates, they’ll simply be sent on longer patrols. To throw off the scent,” he assured. “Our good friend, Ser Jacelyn, is just as you said he would be. Honorable, obedient and most grateful, but he isn’t overly discreet and I am beginning to suspect that Baelish suspects. And that man is by far too cunning to let him have information regarding my dealings.” Varys’ lips were pursed and he seemed in deep contemplation so he picked up, saying, “You won’t have to investigate all of the sailors and officers employed under the king. Just the ones that hold the most influence, the highest officers, and the ones that come in close contact with me and my ship.”

“Will that include your own crew?” Varys asked gravely.

“I would think that I’ve earned their loyalty. But if it calms your mind, then I’ll have Merek look into them,” he said. Merek was his first mate. A tall, rigid man of nearing forty yet already with the grey hairs of a man a dozen years his elder. He had served under him for years. They all had. Sailed from Qarth and Great Moraq to Leng and Yi Ti. The arms that had pulled the oars and tied the knots had cut them across the glittering waters of the Jade Sea and carried them past the Jade Gates. _I’ve made them rich and taken them to the ends of the world. If that did not make a man loyal, I do not know what would,_ he thought.

“What was your question, Aurane?” Varys asked lightly.

Taking another sip of wine, he said, “How was Lord Stark’s meeting with his lady wife?”

"Oh, the usual." Gone was any hint of light in the Master of Whisperers' voice. "Embraces and declarations of love sprinkled in with Baelish's manipulating, the Stark's love of being the biggest fools in the room and, of course, talk of war," he finished as darkly as he had started. 

“I see that you haven’t taken well to the new Lord Hand.”

“There is nothing more terrifying than a truly just man and nothing as more comforting as knowing that that man is too much of a fool to do anything meaningful. He’s a good man, Lord Stark is. A poor player however; too expectant of others.”

Only the dregs of his cup were left and he drained it in a second before placing it down. “So the Starks are on Baelish’s strings,” he said slowly. “And since he’s blamed Tyrion Lannister for Bran Stark’s assassination, I’ll take a wild guess and say that Baelish’s goal here is a war between the Wolf and the Lion.”

"I suppose," Varys sighed to him. "Though with Baelish, you'll never be certain."

“If there’s a war then we should prepare also,” he said. “Perhaps we should send our King to Dorne.”

“Not this again,” Varys murmured with exasperation.

“Forgive me, Varys, for being a bit too direct for your tastes but soon he’ll come of age and regardless of your wishes, he will sail to Dorne,” he said.

“It isn’t time to send our king to Dorne,” he persisted.

“You have said that for far too long, you cockless wonder!” he yelled. “Tell me again why it isn’t time! ‘He needs to be in a position of strength.’ you said, ‘They may not believe in him.’ you said, ‘He must not be influenced too much by the Dornish.’ you said. Well, believe me when I say this, your fears are unwarranted. He _is_ in a position of strength. My strength is his strength and of course, they'll believe him. His looks are identical to Rhaegar's."

“And as for Dornish influence?” His voice was dripping with condescendence.

“You know, Varys, sometimes I wonder if you even believe in the boy,” he said, voicing his disbelief. “He’s his own person. He’s no man’s fool or puppet.”

"You wound me, dear Captain," he said while placing a hand over his heart. "You know how much I believe and care for our king, Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his Name. And that care is why I can't allow him to be in Dorne. Robert Baratheon almost lost himself when he first glimpsed you. Imagine what he would do if word were to reach that a silver-haired man was speaking with the Martells."

 _Nothing good,_ he thought and conceded reluctantly.

**Jon Snow**

He was losing, or so it seemed.

The courtyard was alive with shouts of encouragement and the ring of steel on steel. Wayn was on him, coming fast and swinging hard. Jon was backpedaling, dodging and parrying whenever one of Wayn’s strikes came too close. Wayn made a downcut and Jon straightened himself and answered it with equal strength. Their blades locked. Wayn made to power down through it but Jon was ahead of him. Limping his blade, Jon stepped back and Wayn stumbled forward; unbalanced by the sudden shift in strength. Twisting his shoulder, he slammed it into Wayn’s jaw, forcing the guard back.

He pressed his advantage, going low with a sweeping cut to his knee that was parried just in time. Feinting high, he sideswinged from the right. The feint worked, if only for a blink of an eye, but his speed failed him and Wayn parried it hard. Now he had recovered and was pressing the advantage; Jon fell into his familiar as unfamiliar dance of circling, parrying, and dodging. Waiting for one chance.

His chance came when one of Wayn’s sideswings clipped him. Jon grimaced in pain and smiled inwardly when he saw that Wayn had swallowed his overreaction.

“ _When a foe sees you falter; he rushes in to end the fight quickly.” Lifting his left hand smoothly under his nephew’s chin, he smiled at Daeron’s awed gaze. “He rushes in, gets impatient and sloppy. Leaving behind enough openings to make even a whore blush.” His nephew giggled. “After your foe does that, all you have to do is pick an opening and ...” He mimicked a quick thrust at the boy’s chest that made him jump._

Wayn rushed in, abandoning proper footwork for impatient steps that would get him closer to Jon. Wayn swung fast but Jon was faster. His strike bruised the guard's mailed hip and he twisted just enough to avoid being hit flush; though it still grazed his padded shoulder. Wayn raised his sword for a downcut and out all his weight behind it but Jon smoothly sidestepped away. Before Wayn could assume a proper stance, he sent a clean swing that connected with his forearm and had him grunting. An eyes' blink later and his blade was at the guard's gorget.

“Yield,” Wayn said. Jon nodded. Lowering his blunted sword, he removed his helm and allowed the wind to rush past his long hair. The other Stark guards cheered and congratulated him all the while jeering Wayn good-naturedly. 

With aching legs, Jon walked to one of the barrels that they used as chairs; grimacing with each step. He sat tentatively and winced noticeably. Poxy Tym asked him if he was fine and he nodded, asking for a minute’s rest. _Truth be told, I could use ten minutes' rest,_ he thought. His comatose had weakened him to a great extent. When he had begun training lightly again on the road, he had discovered to his vast dismay that he could last less than half an hour and that with light training only.

It had improved since then and now his body gave out only once the bell chimed one hour; his load had increased in turn. He closed his eyes, critically reviewing his spar. His footwork was still clumsy and in turn, he had been grazed and clipped too much for his liking. If the fight had been genuine, he would have been bleeding from half a hundred cuts. Improvement was needed in his footwork and spatial awareness. But most importantly, he needed-

“ _-to be quicker, Daeron," he said as the boy fell under Ser Terrence's blows. He sighed and changed tact. The boy was more a scholar than a warrior. "Perhaps, swiftness is not the answer. Perhaps, you should use your mind more," he said from his seat in the shade._

_Daeron’s face fell. “Are you saying that I should stick to my books and scrolls, nuncle?”_

_He smiled gently. The boy read too much into one’s words. “No. No, we’re still discussing martial matters, Daeron. What I meant by saying you should use your mind more is simple, lay traps, lead your enemy and his sword as you would lead a horse,” he said. His nephew nodded, keeping up as he continued, “A quick, sharp riposte is just as deadly as a mighty swing. Don’t forget that.”_

_“Yes, but_ how _do you lead your enemy_?”

_"Well, it’s-_

"Lord Snow," a sharp voice called from beyond the curtains that were his eyelids. He opened his eyes and bore witness to the situation. His guards had grown silent and wary. Some of them had hands on their hilts. Jon looked at Ser Alliser, mask in place. "I was wondering if you were interested in sparring with one of them," he jerked his head towards his gaggle of recruits. Ser Allier's tone at 'them' did not escape him. "They're not like your guards and so you should be able to cut through them like a dagger through warm butter," he said slyly.

Jon frowned, confused for a moment over the choice wording before he realized what the master-at-arms was insinuating. He was disgusted, wishing nothing else but to refuse.

Suddenly, a saying floated into his mind: _“If someone is attempting to make a fool of you, make a fool of them however subtly or bluntly.”_ It was said by Prince Daemon Targaryen, he knew and he smirked inwardly as an idea formed in his mind. "I'd be honored, Ser Alliser." He stood and walked over, legs still aching. "However, I am a bit concerned about the Watch's future should their recruits only be trained until, as you said, they can be cut through like warm butter," he said. Ser Alliser's lips thinned as Jon laughed silently, his outward expression even.

“So which one of ‘them’ shall I be fighting, Ser Alliser,” he said slyly. _Oh, how the tables are turning,_ he thought with mirth.

The knight’s onyx eyes had gone dark as he glanced towards his charges. “Stone Head. Up. Show Lord Snow what swinging with strength means.” Jon smiled mockingly at Ser Alliser and drew his sword as his opponent walked forward.

Stone Head, as he had been called, was easily the biggest amongst the recruits; his size only being matched by another boy with a thick neck and a head in height over Jon. Jon donned his helm and nodded at the older boy. The boy nodded back and the spar began.

The taller boy lunged forward immediately, swinging hard but wild. Jon took it in stride and circled round the boy, deflecting the blows and never matching them outright nor throwing aggressive swings of his own. As Jon glided around, he wondered whether 'Stone Head' was the best out of the recruits. He was not all too terrible in attack but tended to overextend and imbalance himself. He had not a taste for defense, however, and Jon saw enough openings to end the fight within a minute but he held off; circling and deflecting.

“Is that your notion of fighting, Lord Snow?” Ser Alliser yelled, incensed but trying to find ways to humiliate him. Jon simply smiled back mockingly.

The boy tried an overhand that Jon blocked, the strength of the blow vibrated through his arm and forced him to place his left gauntlet underneath his blade to hold back the blow. His answer stunned the boy and some in the yard but before he could press the advantage, Jon pushed the locked blades to the side, unbalancing him. He threw a kick at the boy's hip and forced him back, buying him a second to breathe. "Don't bother throwing all your strength behind every one of your blows. Pace yourself, this is not a sprint," he yelled at the other boy.

“Lord Snow wants to take my place.” He sneered.

"No. I'm simply telling him what you should have told him already. He's wielding a sword, not a club," Jon shot back. The recruits had gone deathly quiet, even his sparring partner. Even his guardsmen were wearing masks carved from stone.

“Why are you waiting?” the master-at-arms asked the boy, his voice deceptively soft.

The boy hesitated before going forwards, he thrusted awkwardly at Jon, unbalancing himself. Jon knocked the blade to the left and moved to the right instead of taking the chance and ringing 'Stone Head's' head. "Don't seek to imbalance yourself, balance is key to everything. No balance? No speed. No strength," he told 'Stone Head'.

And that was how the rest of the match went. The recruit chased and Jon evaded using clumsy footwork which had been perfected near a century and a half ago. All the while, he yelled out improvements.

“Relax your grip.”

“Bend your knees and draw from your legs rather than your arms.”

By the time Ser Alliser stopped it, his form and stance had improved however marginally. On the other hand, Ser Alliser looked wroth and Jon would later swear that he had seen the older knight frothing at the mouth. He berated ‘Stone Head’ and sent him to the gaggle of other recruits who were watching him with wide eyes. His body tensed when Ser Alliser whirled and made his way to him. Some of his guards swore and he could hear them shuffling behind him when a voice cracked across the courtyard.

“Ser Alliser,” Ser Waymar called out, voice as thin as a whip. He moved closer to the master-at-arms and said, “Jon Snow is not one of your charges. Your charges are over there,” he pointed at the recruits, “Waiting for instructions.” Ser Alliser glared at him with thinly veiled disgust before walking away.

“I must say, I quite enjoyed that,” Ser Waymar said as he neared Jon.

“He started it, ser,” he said and cringed at how childish that sounded.

Waymar laughed. “Yes, he did. It was clever of you to turn the tables on him like that.” Jon bowed his head. “Your style is interesting. You put your speed to good work and although your footwork is rather clumsy, one can’t deny its effectiveness.”

“Thank you, Ser Waymar.”

Waymar looked down at him. "Not one for words, are you?" Jon simply stared back. Waymar nodded. "I do have some critiques. One is, you need to be faster considering how you want to fight. Also, you need to be more aggressive. Fights aren't won by the timid and cautious but by the brave and the bold." Jon wondered if all southerners carried this sense of self-importance about. Did the man not think that he was fully aware of his shortcomings? Queerly, he reminded Jon of Sansa's obsession with songs and tales and her beliefs that the world was beautiful and full of dashing princes and chivalrous knights. But Jon knew better than to compare a knight to a girl of eleven and besides, he _was_ only trying to help.

Jon thanked him when he had finished, hoping that his tone had conveyed gratitude rather than exasperation. As Ser Waymar was leaving, muttering about duties and maps, Jon called out, “Ser Waymar,” the knight stopped and looked back. “Care for a spar?” he asked.

The knight shook off his astonishment quickly and surveyed Jon’s body. Jon knew that he was tired and covered in sweat and mud; legs aching harder than before. He knew that Waymar was fresh, taller, stronger, older, and considerably more skilled and that he had no chance to win but he wanted to see. Not how he would fare but rather the knight’s reaction. Jon was far more interested in his thoughts than in his prowess with a blade.

“You’re exhausted, Snow. Besides, it’ll be quite some time before you have a chance of winning. Best for you to stick with your guards,” he said with an air of haughtiness. Though, Jon wondered if the knight genuinely believed in his superiority or he said that to keep decorum.

Poxy Tym followed Jon on the way to the armoury. Inside, the recruits were stripping themselves of armour and Jon followed suit. He hung his swords and scabbard onto a hook and realized that Ser Waymar had failed to comment on the awkwardness with which he wielded the sword.

It was a normal longsword, blunted at the edges to be used in sparring. Though the blunted edges weren't the problem, it was the weight. Any sword, he used while practicing felt a tad bit heavy and unbalanced in his hand. The imbalance slowed his strikes and intervened with the style he was trying to use. In his mind's eye, he imagined a dark, slender sword that belonged only in the past; wielded by the likes of Prince Daemon and the Dragonknight. Light but strong and perfectly balanced. _The perfect sword, a beauty amongst blades,_ he thought. _One that is lost and would never belong to me._

Methodically, he stripped his armour, mail, woolen garbs. A chill permeated the air. One that made the hard work of the fire in the brazier feel useless. It was so cold. He wondered if he would even remember the warmth if he joined the Night’s Watch before realizing his pondering to be irrelevant. He would leave soon enough. Eyes watched him from where the recruits changed. Rapists, thieves, and murderers, the lot of them. 

_“All men make mistakes, their mistakes shouldn’t define them.”_ It was another of Prince Daemon’s sayings although Jon questioned the veracity of it as well as how closely the Rogue Prince followed his own words.

It was ‘Stone Head’ who bridged the gap. “Why’d you fight like that? Why didn’t you … attack?” Jon looked up. Another one of the recruits shushed him and apologized, calling Jon, ‘m’lord’.

“I’m not a lord,” he said, looking at the recruit who had shushed ‘Stone Head’. He realized then that they were _scared_. Their eyes flitted to Poxy Tym from time to time, they apologized for asking a _question,_ even ‘Stone Head’ seemed hesitant to ask his question. “Tym, would you guard outside?” Poxy Tym looked at him as though he had grown a second head. “Go on,” he said and the guard walked out, baffled. He looked to ‘Stone Head’. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Halder.”

“Halder,” he nodded. “You’re rather strong. Perchance, did you apprentice for a blacksmith?”

“Stonemason. My father was a quarryman.”

“I hope you’ll take all my advice to heart. I wasn’t mocking you then, I was trying to help.” Halder looked bewildered. Most of them did. “As to your question, he attempted to make a fool of me, so I made a fool of him.”

“But he was only inviting you to spar. You shouldn’t push Ser Alliser like that, he’ll make it worse for you,” said the small boy with the large ears.

Jon scoffed. “Ser Waymar told it true. I am not one of Ser Alisser’s charges. And he wasn’t simply inviting me to spar. He wanted to humiliate me and to a certain extent you all.” He pointed at the boys. “He implied that my guards were letting me win. He either wanted me to refuse so that then he could announce me as a craven. Or he wanted me to fight and lose against one of you and embarrass myself. Or I would accept, beat his chosen partner and walk away. What detriment is there for him, you’d be in the mud. It was a win-no lose situation for him and a lose-no win situation for me, so I decided to flip the tables; see how well he liked it.”

They were quiet and he went back to change. "Seven hells, you got all that from a few sentences?" Another voice asked. He didn't bother to see who it was.

“Aye.”

“Are you really not joining the Wall?” Jon looked. It was the question that finally thawed the air between them. More recruits came forth with more questions. He answered them all and asked them questions that they answered in turn. He learned their names; Pypar, Grenn, Halder, Todder, Dareon, Jeren, Rast, Albett and so they went. He learned of their crimes and their hopes. Grenn had had nowhere else to go after his father had died and his house had burned down; he wanted to be a ranger. Daeron had been a singer in the Reach who had bedded a lord’s daughter; he thought the stewards called to him. Some of them were rapers, but not bad people overall, he noted. Most were just young boys who had committed a crime in desperation or had had no place else to go.

Later that night, he joined the recruits in the common hall rather than sit at the high table where the Lord Commander had given him a seat. The stew that he had been served was considerably worse than the food served at the dais but Jon found himself not caring. It was hot and filled the belly but truth be told, he was too busy teasing Grenn and laughing at Pyp’s japes to care. For the first time in a long while, he felt unburdened.

* * *

_“You’re a warg.” It was more growled than spoken, resonating against the high walls of Winterfell. But it had not been like that, he had spoken softly, with perplexion running rampant across his features._

_They were outside of the outer walls and in front of a gate. It was there that he stood, in front of the raised portcullis. His clothes were rich and kingly but were splattered with blood. His own and others. Atop his shoulders rested Grey Wind’s head. And atop Grey Wind’s head nestled a crown. Yet those eyes, they were still blue. Tully blue._

_Wind snapped across the landscape, coming from the right. His long hair blew into his face and Jon brushed it aside. “Those visions you saw make little sense.”_

_Jon remained quiet, realizing that this Robb was only repeating what had already been said. Those blue eyes glinted._

_“Memories of whom, when, where?” The desperation in those notes played bare for all to hear even now. Though, Jon noticed how shriller and higher Robb’s voice had become. The wind died abruptly._

_A blood-red eye._

_A babe born in blood._

_“BURN THEM ALL!”_ _A voice screamed. The outer walls erupted in flames that reached for and licked the sky. Robb was still standing. Ablaze and with eyes too blue._

_A frozen mark._

_Holes everywhere._

_The outer walls became the Wall. Seven hundred feet of crystalline, grey ice. AAAroooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo sounded the horn. Jon waited as he had done before._

_CRACK!_

_The Wall broke. The sheets came down and what was one became a million. One of the million fell on him. The world was dark._

Jon woke, the taste of blood in his mouth. It was dark in the King’s Tower. Sweat painted his body colorlessly. In the dark, he groped for the pitcher of mulled wine that he had been sent. Perhaps it would wash away the taste of blood. He wondered fleetingly whether the taste came from Ghost making a kill in the woods south of the castle or from his dreams. _Dreams or visions?_ That was the question here as it appeared to have jumbled together.

The hearth fire had died and the room was all the colder without it. The wine did its intended purpose. Jon leaped from his bed, knowing that he would not be finding sleep again that night. His body felt as though he had swallowed a hundred sugar cubes and its effect was beginning to manifest.

He dressed warmly and stepped out of the King's Tower. He shared it with his guards and Tyrion, the Lord Commander deeming them to be suitably high born enough. The pale crescent moon was in its latter stages of sinking. Jon noted that dawn was an hour or so away at most. The world only existed in shades of black and white. The only exception being the flickering orange lights of braziers and lanterns. Even the Wall, crystalline and icy during the day and nothing more than a dark grey cliff in the night.

The air was colder than cold. Everything was frozen due to the lack of the sun. Jon found, much to his dismay, that even his warmest clothes were pierced through consistently by the unwavering cold. Thankfully, the wind was light and not sharp. Jon shuddered, wondering how cold it would get when winter truly came, as, after all, it was still summer.

He moved quickly towards the iron cage that had been placed beside the well. There was a staircase that ascended the face of the Wall. It ran up left to right and right to left and back again, crooked like a lightning bolt. He stepped quickly into the cage and pulled on the rope thrice, having not even considered taking the stairwell.

As he ascended, he couldn’t help but ponder over his visions. The Wall cracking and collapsing but only _after_ a blow from a horn. The horn, he thought, it blew every time Jon saw the Wall collapse in his dreams. _Blue eyes_ , he remembered. What Robb had said did not disturb him. It had only been an echo of when Robb had voiced his thoughts on Jon’s visions and dreams. He smiled, remembering Robb’s confusion about warging.

The cage jerked to a sudden stop and hung there. Suspended seven hundred feet in the sky, Jon felt his breath leave him. “Who goes there?” A voice yelled out.

“Jon Snow,” he called back. Two figures appeared, both plump with layers of fur and wool. They worked to bring him and in a moment, his feet were above the Wall. Once the cage stopped swinging, he stepped out.

“What brings you here?” one of them asked. Only their eyes were visible through their scarves, hats, and hoods.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jon answered. They shared a glance before telling him not to fall off the edge. When Jon had nodded, they both piled back into their small shack.

The Wall was wider than the kingsroad and the walkways were well graveled with crushed stone. They provided a good grip for his boots as he ambled down east. A large catapult had its base sunken deep into the wall. The throwing arm was missing, most likely dismantled. It stood there, half-broken and forgotten. _A bit like the Night’s Watch,_ he thought sadly.

His cheeks felt skinned as he walked and his joints threatened to freeze but he continued down the white road, gravel crunching beneath his feet. He turned to his left and neared the edge. Looking down the vast lands untouched by man for thousands of years, he felt small and insignificant. Those trees, hills, creeks, and ridges had been here since before the First Men. When the giants and the children had ruled the lands. They were all there, he knew. The blue eyes, the masses of things, death, winter. _My uncle,_ he thought.

“Frightening, isn’t it?” A voice asked.

“Aye, Ser Waymar. It is,” he replied. The knight made to stand next to him.

“What brings you up here, Jon?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” He looked at Ser Waymar. “And you?”

He shrugged. “Reviewing some things.” He left it at that. “I saw you sitting with the recruits at dinner,” he said.

“Aye. They’re an interesting lot. They don’t come from a bad lot either,” Jon said.

“They’re criminals, Jon.” He looked at Jon as though he had lost his wits. “Rapers, thieves, and murderers. You’d do well to stay away from them. Sit at the high table where the food is good.”

He shook his head. “Not all of them are criminals, Ser Waymar. Grenn lost his father and house and had no place else to go. Pypar was part of a mummer’s trope when he was accused of a crime that he supposedly committed while drunk. And the others did what they did in desperation. All men make mistakes, Ser Waymar. Their mistakes shouldn’t define them.”

Now Waymar shook his head. “That’s quite a naive way of looking at the world.”

“Yet one worth considering,” he retorted. Ser Waymar remained silent. He looked back north, towards the end of the world. “My uncle is out there,” he said quietly. Waymar nodded. “When’s the Lord Commander going to grant me my request for an audience? It’s been nearly a sennight and he has ignored me. I want to speak with him over my uncle.”

Waymar sighed and said, shrugging, “The Lord Commander is a busy man. I’m sure he’ll grant you your request soon enough.” Jon pursed his lips. He felt as though the Lord Commander was hiding something.

The crescent moon had disappeared from the sky but dawn had yet to come. The world was even darker than it had been. The sky reminded him of the sky when the Wall fell. Dark enough to swallow the stars and banish the moon. “Tell me, Ser Waymar. Do you believe in those old wet nurse tales? Tales about the Others and their big as hounds spiders,” he asked.

He laughed but Jon detected the unease underneath. “It’s easy to believe in those tales on nights like these, Jon. But rest assured, if there are monsters beyond the Wall, it's the wildlings.” Jon ignored the reassurance and focused on his first words. _Nights like these,_ he echoed in his head.

Jon wondered how long before a night like this came and never left.

**The Lost Ranger**

He was always moving here.

He never stopped. He was in perpetual motion wherever he was, whenever he was. Shoveling down food, moving. Taking a long nap before the sunset, moving. Sitting and reading, moving. The same applied to the servants, cooks, and even the lord. The only way to stop moving was to leave the keep but the deceptive waters and lurking lizard-lions were enough to keep Benjen on board the moving fortress. _That’s why no raven could find Greywater Watch,_ he thought.

Maester Walys had told him when he had been just a lad no older than five namedays, that Greywater Watch was impossible to conquer because it moved. But he had argued that it wasn't impossible to conquer because his father's namesake, a King Rickard Stark had conquered it by defeating the last Marsh King. Maester Walys had gently laughed and said, “That’s what the legends say.”

 _That’s what the legends say,_ he echoed. He couldn’t help but believe his old maester words now. The challenges, the logistics, the tricks that had to have been used to conquer the lands of swamps and bogs were beyond his imagination. Either the last Marsh King had been a fool beyond belief or the Rickard Stark of antiquity had been half crannogmen himself, for one would need to know the ways of the crannogmen to ever possibly defeat them.

He was currently lying on his bareback. The crannog-like keep's drifting was soothing and the sturdy, warm wood was comforting. A thick haze shrouded much of the sky and tops of the trees; though the sun still kept its faint outline. There were several men with long poles to keep the mobile keep from becoming entangled in a bush of vines or run aground by a shallow bank. They were a quiet people, the crannogmen. Sitting in silence for hours was common for them. Lizard-lion growls, snake hisses, and the gentle tinkling of water replaced man’s voice quite ably, he found.

He had once asked Howland if there was a pattern or route that the keep followed but the shorter, slighter man simply smiled his sad smile and replied that they followed wherever the river led them. Benjen had laughed and asked what they would do should the river lead them down the Trident to the Twins and Howland had a simple answer: it would not happen.

“How’s your wound?” It was Howland. He was leaning against the railings.

“Same as ever. Fine in the warmth and painful in the cold,” he replied from the floor. And it was true. Whatever sorcerous poison was in the blade only seemed to come alive when the heat left.

Howland nodded. “Rather convenient considering where you’re headed to, Benjen.”

Hearing the dry tone, he laughed and rose to his feet, steadying himself on the railing. "Aye, the 'last greenseer' as you call him told me that I'm now practically useless at the Wall," he said. The last greenseer, a withered body drier than a desert and seemingly one with the weirwood. "Do you think it's time to leave?" he asked Howland, remembering the mission he had been given.

“Yes,” he replied after a second. “The tides are quickly shifting and we must keep pace should we not want to be overtaken by the current.” Benjen could only nod. A lizard-lion in the distance let out a fierce roar. “Lya’s boy is journeying to the Wall.”

“Does he mean to take the black?!” He couldn’t keep the dismay out of his tone.

“I’m not sure,” he replied. “All I know is that the greenseer has shown him the true enemy.”

Benjen frowned. “Jon is only four and ten.”

“Soon to be five and ten,” he pointed out. “As I said, Benjen, the tides are shifting and we _must_ keep pace. Besides, Jon isn’t as we were when we were four and ten.”

“I suppose not,” he admitted reluctantly. His nephew had grown up a bastard and it was said that bastards grew twice as fast as their trueborn siblings. He swore, not liking the greenseer’s plan. “Someone must tell him the truth.”

"He'll know if the greenseer wants him to know," Howland said. Benjen looked down at the slighter man with inquiring eyes but the crannogman kept silent. He sighed. The greenseer dealt in half-truths and lies. The whole picture was never laid bare, not even for a moment. It made sense in a way, he knew. Most times, the more a man knew, the worse the outcome. Sometimes, working blindly meant you worked better.

He looked down at his bare torso. A plethora of scars and burn marks had danced their way through his body yet it was the newest that captured his eyes. The long, clean-cut that slithered its way from his left hip to his left nipple. The flesh had healed enough for it to become a simple white line, yet the blade that had done it assured that it would be tinged blue till the end of time. Yet, it wasn't the blue tinge that captured his attention. It was the matter that the cut showed that sometimes, simply working blindly didn't better the outcome. He looked away.

“How long does it take to reach White Harbour?”

"Less than half a fortnight," he answered. "I have a man ready to guide you, you can leave as soon as you're ready," he said. Benjen spent the rest of the day preparing. The crannogmen gave him new clothes made from lizard-lion leather and he stocked up on supplies and gold. It was enough to last him a year and get him where he needed to be.

When at last they were leaving, dusk had come and passed. The guide that Howland had promised him was named Minal, a slight fellow with a tussle of mud brown hair and deep-set eyes. He said his farewells with the cooks, servants, and nurses. When it came time to say his farewells with Howland, he embraced the man, saying, "Farewell, my friend."

“And you, Stark,” he replied.

Later, after Minal had guided him out of the Neck and Benjen was camping beneath the brilliantly blue stars that reminded him of the Others’ eyes, he realized that he had stopped moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, writing this chapter was (not) fun. Its always (not) fun when you're writing from the POV of three new characters and arguably also the POV of the hardest character to write.
> 
> I hope everybody is fine and stays safe from the coronavirus. Shit's serious considering how contagious it is. 
> 
> Also I heard news that George was self isolating because of the virus and that he was focused on writing so hurray for the virus?


	4. A Very Dark Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion goes library diving, Robb buries something, Jon gets a gift.

**Tyrion Lannister**

“I think you’ll like this one.” Jon handed him a dusty, tattered book. He took the damp rag from the table and wiped the cover gently, revealing its title.

“ _A History of Tyrants and Madmen in Westeros.”_ He opened the cover gingerly and looked down on the first page. “Written by Maester,” Tyrion squinted at the faded ink. “Mold? Mold. Written by Maester Mold.” Jon snorted.

"When was it written?" Jon asked from behind the shelves. They were in the library of Castle Black which in itself lay deep within the vaults of the keep. Amusement was hard to come by in a castle manned by a celibate order that consisted of old, bitter men and sullen boys, so Tyrion had invited Jon to come book seeking with him. He had expected a decline, after all, what young boy would choose to spend their time in a dusty, rat-ridden library, yet he'd had to as neither Jyck nor Morrec knew their letters. To his surprise, the boy had accepted and so here they were; Jon flitting in between shelves, lantern in hand, searching for interesting scrolls and Tyrion sitting next to a rickety table, skin of wine in hand, reading whatever he could make out.

“I don’t know. The ink is too faded,” he replied and took a swig of wine. “Although,” Tyrion turned the pages as gently as he could towards the end, “The last entry seems to be Meagor the Cruel, so it seems quite fair to say that it was written after Maegor’s death.” _I wonder how many Lannisters were entered into the book,_ Tyrion thought. He already knew of one; Tyrion the Tormentor, the Second of his Name and the imp’s namesake. A famed warrior with a battle-axe, who nonetheless had earned the moniker of the Tormentor. Turning the pages gently, he searched keenly for any mentions of Lannister or Tyrion.

A crash went up in the aisle where Jon was and a cloud of dust was released into the air. Tyrion leaned forward, examining the aisle through the released dust. “Jon? Are you unhurt?” Tyrion called out.

A moment passed. “Aye, I am.” He emerged from the darkness, covered in so much dust that it looked as though he had been rolling in mounds of flour.

“You could be a snowman’s cousin,” he jested.

Jon ignored his jape and moved closer. "I've made a feast for the rats back there. All the shelves collapsed in on itself, but I got this." He placed his now dark lantern on the table and produced a scroll that was yellow and brittle. "It's Valyrian and it's about the ten sighs and thirty seats of pleasure," he said smiling.

Tyrion raised his brows. “Ten sighs and _thirty_ seats of pleasure?” Jon nodded and Tyrion couldn’t help but guffaw. “Seven hells, how is it that the possession of this scroll lies in the hands of the Night’s Watch?” he said as he cautiously took the scroll from Jon. The scroll was long and consisted mainly of illustrations that would be enough to drive a septon blind. Underneath the illustrations were small inscriptions written entirely in High Valyrian.

"Would you mind translating for me?" he asked. Jon took the scroll and held it to the candlelight. Tyrion watched Jon's facial expressions as he silently read out the inscriptions. It had been on the road to the Wall that Tyrion had discovered that Jon could read and understand High Valyrian very well; much better than Tyrion could. Curiosity had sprung in him like a spring flower and had refused to die, so Tyrion had asked Jon how he knew Valyrian so well. He had simply replied that his maester had taught him and that he’d had an affinity for the language. Though he had noticed Jon grow quiet afterwards.

“I’m not sure if I even _want_ to translate this, my lord,” Jon said with a chuckle. He was blushing.

“Well, in that case, I’ll do it later by myself.” He took the scroll and rolled it again before placing it on a pile of books that he had taken interest in.

Relighting his lantern, Jon headed back to flit between the shelves but not before taking a long draught of the wine himself. Leaning back on his chair, Tyrion stared at the vaulted ceiling. Or what he assumed was a vaulted ceiling as it was too dark to make out anything. “How did your conversation with the Lord Commander go?” Tyrion inquired. 

The light from his lantern stopped shaking and he heard the boy sigh. “The Lord Commander told me what my Uncle was intending. He’d taken a party of nine after a band of raiders. After dealing with them, they were to split into three and each head in different ways. My Uncle was the one to go farthest north, though that doesn’t exactly matter as none of the men he took have made it back as of yet.” The lantern had resumed its shaking. Jon had resumed his search.

“Did he tell you what could have happened?”

“Aye. The Old Bear believes that he might have been captured by the wildlings. Specifically, he mentioned Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

_Captured, not killed._ It seemed that Mormont believed the same as Jon; that Benjen Stark was still alive. “I take it that this _king_ is dangerous.”

Jon spoke from beyond the shelves. "My father once told me that there is no man more dangerous than an oathbreaker. Mance Rayder is a deserter from the Night's Watch. Only, he deserted north not south." Jon's raised voice reached him faintly from where he sat. "It's worse than that, however." Tyrion perked up. "Lord Mormont tells me that the Watch has fallen to under a thousand men. He pleaded with me to speak with my father and brother. 'The Night's Watch is dying' he said. If the King-Beyond-the-Wall decides to attack, he'll spill into the North and kill countless," Jon finished.

Tyrion took another swig. “Do you believe that Mormont will take up the same plea with me?”

"He said that the fisherfolk at Eastwatch has glimpsed white walkers," Jon continued. It felt as though Jon hadn't meant to share that but rather that it had slipped his tongue.

“The fisherfolk of Lannisport often glimpse merlings,” he couldn’t help but say.

It was quiet afterwards. Skin of wine in hand, Tyrion sat, leaning back, on his chair, thoughts swirling with images of savage kings and mythical creatures. Jon had stopped his shuffling in between the shelves. He began humming. The tune of _The Seasons of My Love_ reminded him of a little cottage by the sea.

“My lord.” A hand reached out to his shoulder and shook him. He opened his eyes immediately and saw Jon’s thin frame looming over him like a spear.

Rubbing his eyes, he sighed, saying, "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that. It's rude." His eyes itched severely causing him to wonder whether it had been the excess dust or if he had lulled himself to sleep.

"I suppose," Jon replied. He was looking at the floorboards behind him. "I found this journal of sorts." He held up a leather-bound book with slashes of scarlet red. "It was written by Brynden Rivers," he said.

“Bloodraven?”

"Aye. Though, most of his entries seem to have been eaten by rats." Jon gave the book to Tyrion. Holding it closer to the candlelight, he saw that Jon was right. The rats had made a banquet with the parchment. Many of the pages that remained were too faded to make out except the middle portion of the book, where he found both the quality of the pages and ink to be acceptable.

“It’s from a century ago,” he noted as his thumb passed over the date.

“What’s it about?” Jon asked.

Tyrion read carefully, holding the journal as close to the candle as he dared. “Weeping Ridge…Weeping Ridge, this is about the Battle of Redgrass Field,” he declared. His companion moved in closer and Tyrion decided to read it aloud. _"This was our chance. Leo Longthorn would not be able to assemble his levies in time but that mattered little. Ser Quentyn Ball, the spiteful bastard, was dead. Killed by some common archers though I wish it'd been my own Ravens who killed him. Lord Bracken was delayed in his recrossing of the Narrow Sea so his company of Myrish crossbowmen was irrelevant. I'd hoped that Bracken's unfortunate storms also caused his death but the gods were not plentiful and he made it back._

_"Everything was fine. Donnel Arryn would be leading the van along with Gwayne Corbray, Maeker and the rest. Our numbers were damn near equal but my ravens had shown me that Baelor was close. All they would have to do is hold until his host of stormlords and Dornishmen reached them. The Weeping Ridge overlooks the field in which the battle had been fought and I had noticed it through the eyes of my birds. So I took my personal guard, 500 capable archers, to the vantage point. From there, I would have a clear view of the field. We set out just before the battle. Daemon was-"_

“Enough,” Jon’s low voice broke through his retelling. Looking at the boy, Tyrion noted immediately that Jon was unwell. His face was chalk-white and his knuckles were white from gripping the table. Swallowing hard, he ran a hand through his long hair.

“Jon, what’s the problem?” Tyrion asked. His face was painted with concern.

“I, I, I…,” he stammered.

The door to the library burst open suddenly. It was the Royce boy. His eyes sought out the candle and from the candle, he sought out Jon. "Jon, the Lord Commander is asking for your presence. There's a raven from Winterfell."

Jon stiffened for a moment before blurting out. “Winterfell? I … Is it Bran?”

The knight shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t read it nor did the Lord Commander tell me anything.”

Jon lurched towards the exit and Waymar followed in his path, leaving a very baffled dwarf behind. Taking another swig of wine, he closed the journal and sighed, wholly baffled as to what had just occurred. A raven from Winterfell had arrived. Doubtless, it was about the younger Stark's health. Though, much of his confusion came from the boy's reaction to the entry. It appeared as though Jon disliked what Tyrion had read although another thought crept into his mind, reminding him of the boy's traumatic injury just several moons' turn prior.

Though one thing was for certain, it was one of the only times that the Imp had seen Jon’s guarded mask fall.

**Robb Stark**

They were burying Lady.

It was short and private, with only Maester Luwin, Theon, and the guards who had delivered Lady’s bones being there. Rickon was too willful to bring down to the crypts, and Bran had only just woken up. Mother had gone and had taken Ser Rodrik with her; leaving Robb alone to deal with all of this.

They laid Lady’s bones in one of the unsealed tombs reserved for future members of House Stark. Some may have taken offense to the idea of burying an animal in the crypts, but Robb had ordered it nonetheless. Lady was a direwolf; the sigil of House Stark. And Robb would be damned if he gave his sister’s wolf some ordinary grave, dug by the side of a road. She deserved better.

Besides, he glanced down to the long line of more unsealed tombs, there was plenty of space for everyone. A stonemason from Winterfell had been brought in to properly seal the tomb. The guards laid down her bones while Robb personally laid her fur over them; making it seem as though Lady had been curled up very tightly.

“She was a good direwolf. Well behaved, gentle, and perfectly suited to Sansa. She had a short but sweet life,” Maester Luwin eulogized as the stonemason carved the epitaph onto the stone.

“I would have preferred for her to have a long, dull life. Protecting Sansa and her children. But, I suppose she’s lived longer than most people deserve.” _Most Lannisters_ is what Robb had wanted to say. But eyeing the group gathered, it would not be wise. 

After a few minutes of silence, they began to leave. The stonemason was first, bowing and saying he had no right to be here. The servants who had bothered to come down also left, citing their duties. Robb only nodded in response, and they took their leave.

He looked to the guardsmen still waiting awkwardly. "You may return to the castle. Food and ale are waiting for you in the Great Hall. After that, show yourselves to Hallis Mollen. He'll tell you where to bed down tonight," Robb said to the men.

“Were you commanded to return to King’s Landing or stay here?” Theon asked the guardsmen as they were turning to leave.

Their serjeant looked sheepish. “I apologize, m’lords, but we was only told to return the bones. The Lord and Jory rode off early in the morning, ‘fore we could ask them you see.”

Robb nodded, slightly annoyed by Jory’s oversight. “You’ll be informed on the morrow. For now, rest and relax. You’ve earned it,” he told them. They bowed and left. Only Luwin and Theon remained.

“It’ll be best to send them back to King’s Landing,” Theon advised. “Along with another two-three score of guards.”

“And risk the Lannisters’ suspicions?” Maester Luwin asked scoldingly.

“They’re suspicions are already on us. Bran is awake and the ravens are already flying. They’ll be wondering how much Bran knows, even if the boy claims to remember nothing. But Bran is safe in Winterfell while more guards in King’s Landing will help with Lord Stark’s safety,” Theon insisted. _… Greyjoy banner in the mud …_

“My lord,” the maester turned pleadingly to Robb. “Please do not be hasty in this matter. Allow Lady Catelyn and Lord Stark to handle this situation.”

“Like Lord Stark handled Lady?” Theon taunted.

"Enough!" He whirled on the both of them whereas previously he had been looking at Lady's tomb, mellowing on his fate. "This is where my ancestors lay in rest. Take your squabbles elsewhere," Robb said, fuming. "And Theon," … _Greyjoy banner in the mud …_ “do not insult my Father again or you’ll end up like Lady.” His tone was dismissive, and they both bowed before leaving. Though, he could see Theon scowling.

Robb sighed. His patience had grown thin since his mother had left.

He looked back to Lady’s tomb and grew mellow again as he thought of his fate. One day, Robb would be buried here; in one of the many unsealed tombs laying in a row. There would be an effigy of himself and Grey Wind. A broadsword would be balanced on his knees so as to make sure his spirit never wandered. _Would that I could live forever_. Though it was only a childish dream. All men must die, he thought somberly.

_“There was a feast in the Great Hall. Filled with hundreds of people that I didn’t recognize, but there were some.” Jon was staring at the wall, though his eyes had that faraway glint to them. They were in his chambers. “I saw Ser Rodrik splattered with blood. Right arm missing. I saw Maester Luwin with several stab wounds. And Jory and Old Nan and Alyn and Mikken, and on and on it went._

_“I reached the dais, and, and.” Jon broke off and shook his head. Tears glistened in his eyes._

_“What was it?” Robb asked, trepidation clear in his voice._

_Jon looked at him. “I saw Father, his head literally in his hands. I saw Lady Stark, her throat slit, face scratched to ribbons. I saw you, but your head wasn’t there either. In its stead was Grey Wind. There was a crown nestled in atop his head. Where your head should’ve been. You were a king.”_

Robb had moved on, leaving the yet-to-be-filled tombs behind, and now stood in front of the Kings of Winter. Their stern faces glowering down upon him, the direwolves seemed to be baring their teeth in the dim light cast by the torch in his hand.

_… You were a king …_ A voice whispered in his ear. He stared at the crowns the Old Stark Kings wore. It was a circlet of bronze incised with the runes of the First Men. Nine black iron spikes rose in the shape of longswords.

He looked at the epitaphs carved beneath the effigies. It read many different names: Edwyn, Orwen, Harlon, Eyron, Dorren; yet they all had KING IN THE NORTH engraved. He wondered if what Jon had seen would come true. If his father would be executed and his mother served a grisly death. And him, a King with a wolf’s head sewn to his neck. He wondered if they would have KING IN THE NORTH engraved on his tomb as well. What other titles would he hold? Husband? Father? Monster?

_“I’m a skinchanger.” The statement hung stale in the air. It was the day after his mother had been attacked. Winterfell was tense, and the guards had swept the castle searching for any more strangers. They hadn’t found anyone else but that hadn’t stopped Robb from assigning two guards on every member of his family as well Maester Luwin and several others._

_“Like the ones Old Nan used to tell us?” Robb was wary. Still unsure of what to think or feel of his brother’s abilities._

_“Well I’m neither eating children nor am I turning into a crane so I would say no,” Jon replied wryly._

_Robb blushed, realizing that it was still his brother and not some monster from Old Nan’s tales. Having the ability to control animals didn’t change his brother, and neither would it change Robb’s opinion of him. “You’re one too,” Jon said, staring at him intensely._

_“I’m what?” Robb asked. But he could guess what Jon was about to say, even if he didn’t want to hear it._

_“A skinchanger. A warg. You’re one too.”_

“Monster,” he mused. Skinchangers were hunted throughout the Seven Kingdoms. He wondered if the North would hunt him if they knew what he was. Would they call him a monster? Would they call him a beastling and refuse to serve under him as bannermen?

_I’m not a monster. I will never be a monster._

After Jon had departed, he had briefly pondered whether he’d been right. Was he a skinchanger? Jon could see through his wolf’s eyes but he couldn’t. He couldn’t feel Grey Wind right now nor couldn’t see through his eyes despite the wolf being in the castle. But he couldn’t help but have a feeling, queer and quiet in the back of his head that bonded him with Greywind. _A skinchanger is not a monster. I’m not a monster. I will never be a monster._

“Robb!” A voice called out from his right. It was Theon. “It’s been hours. Are you feeling unwell?” _… Greyjoy banner in the mud …_

“Theon,” he said with cool courtesy. “Shouldn’t you be drilling with the guards?”

“It’s been hours,” he repeated. “Training’s over. It’s midday, time for lunch. Rickon’s been crying that you left as well. Are you unwell?” Theon asked again.

A pang went through him. Rickon, a babe still and yet most of his family had gone and left him. “No, I’m fine. Just … brooding I suppose.” Theon sniggered. _… Greyjoy banner in the mud …_

“Have you thought on what I said? About the guards, I meant.” Theon asked.

Robb nodded. “I have.” Gods, he wished Ser Rodrik was here to counsel him on matters like this. Ser Rodrik may have had an old man’s caution but he also possessed an old man’s experience. And Robb for all he may have been taught and shown still felt uncomfortable and unsure when it came to commanding men and making bold moves. “I’ll send the men back and add some more guards to their ranks but no more than a score. I have to trust Mother and Father, and I don’t think Father would want fifty or a hundred more men.”

Theon scowled. _… Greyjoy banner in the mud …_ “The Lannisters want blood, Robb. They wanted Bran dead and it’s their fault Lady’s buried in that tomb. We should make a bold move, strike fear into their hearts.”

_Yes,_ he found himself thinking, _show them that wolves have teeth. But can I trust you, Theon. … Greyjoy banner in the mud … Winterfell sacked and ruined … Father executed, Mother dead …_

“Yes, because the Queen and the Kingslayer would be afraid of us,” he found himself saying.

Theon huffed and turned to walk away. Robb followed him slowly, finding the crypts to be depressing and further contemplation of his death to be useless. _What will come will come._

When he reached the Great Hall with Grey Wind in tow, he saw Rickon crying and wailing to a helpless Luwin. It was only when he saw Robb did he stop. Clinging himself to Robb’s leg, he refused to leave Robb’s side for the whole of lunch, and after coaxing a few sweets from Robb and a promise that he would not leave, Rickon bounded off with Shaggydog; Grey Wind following to make sure they didn’t cause much trouble.

“It’s been difficult for the lad,” Hallis Mollen said. He was sitting to his right while Theon was to his left. Maester Luwin was with Bran, carefully measuring his portions and making sure he ate the correct herbs and tonics.

“Aye. Everyone has left him save me and Bran. He’ll be fine. He’s a Stark.” Robb said. “Hal, I want you to pick a few guards and with the men that arrived with Lady’s bones, I want you to make a party of twenty. Give them provisions, horses, then send them on their way to King’s Landing.”

Hal finished chewing his roasted and spiced chicken wing before answering. “I beg pardons, m’lord. But it’s best to keep the men here, I’m thinking. Lord Stark took the cream of the guard with him and Jon was given twenty good ones. What with the new recruits still being raw and the pool of experienced men shallow, we’d be stretched too thin by sending more men to King’s Landing.”

Robb paused and took a sip from his cup. Cider washed over his tongue. Being the Lord of Winterfell allowed him to drink all the wine he wanted, yet it was still quite early in the day, and he knew that there were still many duties to attend to. Balancing the books, drilling the guards, listening to the smallfolk, reading reports from his father’s bannermen. It was tiring work, and it was threatening to overwhelm him. Yet who could he turn to? Theon, who was always trying to get him out to Winter Town. Maester Luwin, who gave good counsel but was not a lord or a Stark. Who could help him?

“M’lord? Will you still be wanting the men to be sent to King’s Landing?” Hal asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Robb thought about it. _… Winterfell sacked and ruined … Greyjoy banner in the mud … The flayed man flying triumphantly …_ Could he afford to leave Winterfell defended by untested and untried green boys? “No. Keep the men here for now. We’ll see later.” Hal nodded.

Theon shook his head in disagreement but didn’t argue. Standing, he said, “Well, I’ll be in Winter Town, paying Ros a visit. Don’t expect me for the afternoon training.” Watching Theon exit through the doors, he felt … _envy._ Envious that Theon had no responsibilities, no duties. Envious of his friend’s freedom; his ability to visit brothels without shame. He wondered how it would feel to be _that_ unburdened.

Finishing his cider, Robb stood and made his way out of the Great Hall. He would look over the books with Maester Luwin and then help Hal drill the guards. Perhaps he could sneak in a few practice spars with Hal. The gods knew how much he was itching for a proper spar.

He climbed the tower steps slowly, passing by the many guards assigned to guard his brother, and reached Bran’s door. Knocking thrice, he entered, finding Bran lying in his bed, Maester Luwin trying to coax crushed herbs into him. Summer was curled up near Bran, sleeping silently.

“Come now, Bran, it’s meant to help you,” Luwin soothed.

“Then why is it so bitter?” Bran complained. He looked to Robb then. “Robb, tell him I don’t need it. And nothing bitter can be good for you.” Bran cried. Robb hid his smile behind his hand.

“You know, Bran, sometimes it’s the things that are sour, bitter, and painful that help the best,” he said shrugging, although he wasn’t sure if what he was saying was right.

“That can’t be true,” his brother muttered. Maester Luwin shook his head, amused.

“Well, when you scrape your elbows and knees, Maester Luwin dabs some wine on it and may even apply some ointment. It stings and smells but it makes sure you don’t catch an infection doesn’t it?” Bran nodded reluctantly. “Well, it’s the same with those herbs. Aye, they’re bitter and could use a few drops of honey but they help you nonetheless.”

Huffing, Bran took the herbs; making a disgusted face after swallowing. Maester Luwin simply shook his head at his brother’s antics.

Looking at him, the maester asked, “Will you be looking over the books again, my lord?”

“Aye, maester, I will. I wanted to speak with Bran first.” The maester nodded, leaving the chambers as soon as he had gathered his things.

He slowly sat on the bed, near Bran’s side, and took his hold of his hand. A healthy pallor was slowly returning and he noted that his skin did not feel as taut. “How are you feeling?” Robb asked gently. He could only imagine the pain and frustration his younger brother was in.

Biting his lip, he answered, “I’m fine.”

Robb smiled. “You always bite your lip when you lie.”

Bran blushed. Looking sheepish, he answered honestly this time. “I’m angry. I’m angry that everyone left while I was lying here, _broken._ Arya, Sansa, Father, Jon, even Mother.” Tears filled his eyes but he didn’t shed them. Then in a lower voice, he said, “Jon promised we would see the Wall together.”

Something cold seemed to be pressing down on his chest, touching his heart and making his breaths shallower. Ignoring it, he squeezed Bran’s hand harder. “Bran, you aren’t broken. No matter who says what. You’re not broken,” he said fiercely. “And they’ll come back, Bran. They’ll all come back. Mother and Father and Jon and the girls. You’ll see. They’ll come back.”

“But why did Mother leave in the first place? I understand about Father and the girls. But why did Mother leave? Why did Jon? Why are there so many guards protecting me?”

Robb sighed, knowing he would ask these questions. So far they had hidden acknowledgment of the assassin from Bran, but his brother wasn't stupid. He could see the guards every time the door opened. He could remember that Mother was supposed to stay in Winterfell.

“Well, Jon left to speak with the Night’s Watch and find out what he can about Uncle Benjen.”

“Has Uncle Benjen still not returned?” Bran’s eyes were wide. Robb only shook his head. 

"Mother, well. This isn't easy to talk about but … but while you were sleeping, a man was sent to kill you, Bran." His eyes grew wider. "Summer was the one to kill him but Mother was distressed and she went to King's Landing to speak with Father about it. The guards are meant to assure us of your safety."

Nonplussed, Bran could only look to his wolf. Summer was still sleeping; unaware that his master was learning of his heroics. “Bran, I have to ask. I know you said that you don’t remember anything from the fall, but I was hoping that you might recall _something.”_

He really wanted to know who it was so that he could gut the man himself. Who would dare break the laws of hospitality and attempt to murder a boy no older than eight? _A man who has shit for honor._

Bran thought about it but he ended up shaking his head again. Robb nodded, he was disappointed but he didn’t blame Bran. “Is Mother on a ship?” Bran blurted out.

Confusion creased his face as he looked at his brother. “I … Yes, she should be. How, how did you know that?”

“I saw it,” he replied. “When I was falling. I saw a lot of things.”

“What? When you were falling? When- No, what did you see?” Robb asked, very much confused.

Bran paused, as though remembering, before beginning in a flat voice. "I saw Mother and Ser Rodrik on a ship. I saw Father before King Robert and the girls. Sansa was crying, Arya was angry. I saw Jon at the Wall, he was in his room holding something dark and thin. There was a crow with me, only he had three eyes instead of two. I was falling but he was telling me to fly but I couldn't. He told me to fly or die. I flew," he finished, looking at Robb.

Robb looked horrified, even though what Bran saw wasn’t terrible in itself. “I think we should wait for Jon. He’ll know what to do.” _He’ll know what to say._ Bran questioned him but Robb only shook his head.

_Jon has the answers. Jon is the answer._

**Jon Snow**

_They were screaming. All of them, screaming and praying and shouting for their gods to save them from the black flames. Well, it was no use. There was only one god here and his name was Balerion._

_The Black Dread roared into the sky which was darkening with each passing moment from the plumes of smoke. Flapping his wings, he lowered himself from where he had been hovering ever so slightly. Maegor yelled, "Dracarys!" and the dragon listened. Torrents of black fire continued to gush from Balerion's throat. It rained upon the Sept of Remembrance and all the treacherous so-called 'Warrior's Sons' as rain would. Hundreds of feet below, the pious cowards were running for their lives. They would not get far, Maegor thought as Balerion continued his relentless barrage upon those devout fools. He had lined the streets with archers and spearmen of his own. Those loyal to the Dragons, loyal to him._

_They dived back towards the sept now focusing on parts untouched. The power that Balerion’s black flames carried was so immense that it tore great bricks of marble and stone asunder. The heat of his flames reached Maegor but he felt no need to cover his face. He was a dragon and dragons did not fear fire. They were still screaming. Maegor laughed and delighted at the sound. He peered down towards the streets where he had witnessed several scores of septons run. Arrows littered their bodies and their bodies littered the streets. He gave another laugh, feeling the exhilaration the screams and blood gave him._

_As they passed above the blazing ruins of the sept, the scent of burning flesh wafted up to his nostrils. He shuddered with glee and Balerion roared for all the heavens to hear. The Faith in King’s Landing was eradicated. Now only those fools in Oldtown remained. They were still screaming._

_Still screaming._

_Screaming._

Jon woke with a start, screams still echoing in his head and the faint smell of burning flesh still in his nose. Nausea overcame him. He clambered off his chair and retched into the wastebasket. Wiping his mouth when he had finished, he stood awkwardly before collapsing into his chair.

Darkness shrouded his chambers with only the candlelight and the moon's glow beating it back. Legs trembling and heart pounding, he reached for the mug of ale on his desk. It would help wash away the taste of his half-digested dinner. Draining his mug, he placed it back down, realizing that he had fallen asleep on Bloodraven’s journal. His bed lay cold and unused. Ghost was out as usual; hunting for his food. He wiped his brow clean of sweat and ran his hand through his hair, noting that it was due for a cut.

Inhaling deeply, he calmed his racing heart and steadied his breathing. The screams still echoed in his head but the rancid smell of burning flesh had receded and with it, his nausea. _The screams, the screams,_ he thought. Maegor enjoyed them but Jon didn't. He hated it. He hated seeing the effects of torture, he hated the sound that came from a sword on flesh, he hated the way blood would splatter everywhere but most of all, he hated the sounds of screaming. It made no sense as to why Jon had _those_ memories. 'What was the point? What was the reason?' he wanted to yell. But it was of no use. No one had the answers to his questions.

Glancing down at his admittedly rich desk, he continued his reading of the entries. ‘ _When Baelor arrived, my legs nearly gave out from relief. We were saved! The realm had been saved when I’d put my arrows through Daemon and his sons but_ we _had been saved when Baelor and his host arrived._

_‘But I remembered Aegor. I knew that he would not quit the battle before my body lay before his feet. Even as the horns from Baelor’s host sounded through the field, Aegor was determined to kill me and I wondered if it would be the death of him. We had dueled already when he led his mad charge down towards our lines. He took my eye but I’d given him half a dozen shallow cuts too before we were separated by the tide of soldiers._

_I could hear Maekar’s -’_ Jon slammed the journal shut. He knew all of this already, he had lived it all through Bloodraven’s eyes and Daemon’s. Time, however, had decided that only the entry regarding the Battle of Redgrass Field to be important as the remaining pages were too faded and old to be of use. His head was pounding and so he leaned back into his chair and massaged his right temple.

Jon was stressed. He was frustrated. But most of all, he was angry. The visions and warnings were the cause of his stress. His frustration came from his inability to solve their obscure meaning and understand what they implied. But his anger came from the fact that the visions and warnings were so damn complex. So damn hard to understand. For all intents and purposes, Jon might as well have been shown a piece of unremarkable, flat stone and been asked which of the Seven Kingdoms it came from.

He felt as though he wanted to punch a wall. He wanted to just scream and yell all his emotions out into the frigid air. He wanted to run and run and run so hard that he couldn't breathe anymore and his muscles were begging him to stop. He wanted to hunt. He wanted to kill. He wanted _blood._

He was panting in the dark. For a moment, he couldn’t understand where the light from the candle and moon had gone but then he realized that his eyes were closed. Opening his eyes, he saw nothing but his chambers. He was standing, he noticed and he was holding his dagger in his hand. Moonlight glinted off the steel as he holstered it again. He’d lost control and left himself vulnerable to Ghost’s predatory instincts. He rubbed the heel of his palms into his eyes, wondering if he could do anything right. Not having an emotional fit was one of the more important rules of skinchanging.

His chair was upended and he bent to fix it before sitting down. Holding his head in his hands, he sighed. His frustration, anger had ebbed away and now he was only scared. Unbidden, tears welled in his eyes. He thought of Bran; awake but crippled. Joy had briefly chased away all those negative emotions when he had first read the letter. But they returned as his joy slowly died. His brother was crippled, his father may have gone south only to die and Robb’s corpse had been clear as crystal in his dream. Jon didn’t know what he could do, what _to_ do. If the fisherfolk at Eastwatch were to be trusted, then the Others were close. Too close. What could a simple northron bastard do about that?

_“Snow! Snow!”_ A voice cried from outside. Wiping his eyes with his sleeves, he stood and walked over to the window. Peering outside, he saw naught but the flickering of torches and the mystical glint of the moon upon the Wall. Then, he saw the raven flying madly in circles. It yelled again. " _Snow! Snow!”_ He realized it as Mormont’s raven. The one that always asked for corn from atop the Lord Commander’s shoulder.

It landed, suddenly, near the window, and he was privy to a closer look. It was huge, old, and rather scruffy in his appearance. It hopped closer to the window and then tapped it with its beak. _Bold,_ Jon thought with a raised brow. It quit its tapping and looked up, straight at him. Its eyes were black, beady, and held a glint that was familiar to Jon. _Scruffy, large, and with black, beady eyes?_ Jon’s eyes went wide as he recognized it.

It was the raven from his visions.

It cried his name a few more times before taking flight again. Jon scrambled over to his cloak and rushed out the door. The night air was colder than a tomb, but Jon cared naught as he followed the raven's path. Jon slowed his pursuit as he stepped underground. The raven had flown into the vaults, most likely the library. _Perhaps there’s some scroll or document that it wants to show me,_ he pondered.

Passing through the open door, his eyes were immediately attracted to the lit candle on the table. Wrapped in his grey maester's clothes and a thick woolen and fur cloak, the maester of Castle Black looked like a swaddling babe. He sat there, blind, old and frail, staring at the candle with interest gleaming in his clouded eyes. A blackthorn cane leaned against the table.

Jon glanced around hoping to see the raven but found nothing. Was he in another dream? Had he fallen asleep after waking, or had he not woken in the first place? _No!_ _If it was a dream, then I wouldn’t be aware._

“Maester Aemon,” he greeted. “Forgive me for disturbing you.”

The old maester’s gaze didn’t falter. “There is no need to apologize, Jon Snow. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You were?” Jon asked with a healthy dose of skepticism and confusion. Then, Jon realized that the maester was most likely waiting for someone to help him to his quarters.

“Tell me, Jon, are you an honorable man?” the maester asked. He was still gazing into the candle.

Very much confused, Jon walked closer, eyes roaming for black wings, and said, "My father is an honorable man. And I try to be one as well." The maester nodded and closed his white eyes as though his answer had brought him peace.

"If you had a decision to make," he said, voice soft but firm, "One between your honor and your family, how would you choose?" Jon furrowed his brow and glanced around the library, wondering if the maester was speaking to some other unknown in the room. However, discounting the two men -and of course the rats- the library was scant of living presences.

Clearing his throat, Jon answered honestly, but with a fair bit of wariness for the maester could have been laying a trap with seemingly simple questions. "I would do the right thing, as I'm sure my father would. No matter what."

The maester stole his gaze from the candle and stared at Jon with his dead, white eyes. They seemed to pierce through him, and Jon resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably. “And if the right choice was dishonorable?” It was barely a whisper.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled a chair and sat down across from the maester. “Forgive me, maester. But I don’t quite understand why this interests you?” he snapped. If the maester hadn’t been blind, he would have borne witness to anger and irritation flaring brightly from the young boy’s eyes.

Suddenly, the raven appeared, flying in from beyond where the maester sat. He shrieked for corn before perching himself on the maester's shoulders. Jon couldn't help but stare shamelessly, with wide eyes, at both the bird and the old man.

"I am interested," the old maester started, "Because you are a man, and as all men are, fashioned for love. For that is our great glory and our great tragedy.

“I am interested because I know of men and oaths. I know that words are wind. I know that love is the bane of honor, the death of duty and that duty is nothing compared to a woman’s love or the memory of a brother’s smile.” The old maester leaned in, gazing at him closely. Jon could faintly see tears in the old man’s eyes.

“I am interested because I know the price of honor. I know the Watch takes no part. I know that when the Andals crossed the Narrow Sea and laid waste to the kingdoms of the First Men, the Night’s Watch did not march. I know that when Aegon slew Harren and all his sons, Harren’s brother was the Lord Commander, the Night’s Watch did not march.“ His voice was scant a whisper now.

“I am interested because I know that the path of honor is a path that appears easy to walk. Yet, I know that a day will come when it leads to a junction. A crossroad. And it is there that a man is revealed for what he is; for when there is no cost, we all do our duty; when there is nothing to fear, a craven is brave.” Now the maester grasped his hand with his own withered, spotted one; it was warm and surprisingly firm.

“I am interested because I know of the darkness that grows beyond the Wall. I am interested because I know that you know of the darkness that haunts my dreams endlessly.” Jon’s eyes were wider than saucers. Swallowing hard, he noticed the maester’s hand shaking. “I know of the importance of your role in all of this. That is why I am interested,” he finished. The raven shrieked then, yelling, _“Dead! Dead!”_

Jon had grown pale. _Perhaps, the maester is the raven’s human voice, the one who spoke to me and led me through my dreams,_ he thought. He asked, in equal parts dread and anticipation, “Who are you?”

The maester smiled, toothless and quivering. "A maester of the Citadel, bound and sworn to the Night's Watch. In my order, we put aside our names and family." The maester laid a hand onto his chain. "Yet, I had a father, Maeker, the First of his Name, and a brother, Aegon, who was king after him. A grandfather who reigned before them both. It was he who named me Aemon, for the Dragonknight."

“Aemon… _Targaryen?”_ Before Jon could help himself his mouth was gaping.

“Once,” he said, hanging his head. Doubtless, he was grieving for his past and his family. It grew silent then. Even the raven kept his beak shut. Jon had yet to overcome his confusion and had yet to contemplate the maester’s words when he continued. “I have a gift for you, Jon Snow,” he said, voice unwavering.

"A gift?" Jon asked stupidly. The maester waved a hand over to his right, towards the floor. Jon stared hesitantly before leaning over and finding a thin, long chest. He took it and laid it gently on the table, though that didn't stop the table from wavering. It was unadorned except for the clasps, which were silver. Hesitating, Jon looked to the maester, unsure of whether it was his to open. To answer his doubts, the maester nodded; later, Jon would wonder how the maester had known he had looked at him.

Puffs of dust clambered out when he opened the clasps. Throwing the lid back, Jon gasped as he looked down at what lay cushioned in velvet. It was dark and slender. Wielded by the men in his memories. A beauty among blades. The perfect sword. It was … "Dark Sister," he muttered. Awe dripping from his expression.

“But this was thought to be lost! How do you have this?” he couldn’t help but ask.

The maester smiled sadly. “When I came to the Night’s Watch, my brother deemed it proper to send an honor guard with me. And so he emptied the dungeons and gathered up willing men. Bloodraven was amongst the prisoners for sullying the honor of the Iron Throne, and so he was sent with me. Nineteen years passed after we arrived when he disappeared beyond the Wall. For thirteen of them, he was Lord Commander. A position I was sure he would rise to." The old man sighed with fondness. 

Then his mouth settled on a frown. "When he left on his last ranging, I could have sworn he was carrying Dark Sister. And yet a year after the rebellion, I found that box," he pointed towards the chest, "Sitting hidden in one of the lower levels of the Lord Commander's keep." Shaking his head, he continued in a fond tone, "Bloodraven always liked his tricks and secrets. He was a sorcerer, unsentimental at times, and deceitful at most, yet a good man nonetheless." He closed his eyes as he finished, doubtless the memory of a relative hurt more when given that House Targaryen was almost extinct.

Opening his lids, he found Jon and said, “It was he who sent you those visions.”

“Bloodraven is still alive!?” Jon could scarcely believe it.

To that, Maester Aemon simply nodded. “As I said, he was a sorcerer, and not the type to simply make a monkey appear out of a hat for the amusement of a crowd. It is he who gifts you Dark Sister.”

Jon had forgotten about that. Forgotten that the maester said that it was a gift. For him. “Dark Sister? But, but, no, Maester Aemon. I can’t. It’s the ancestral sword of House Targaryen. I’m just a …” _motherless, northron bastard,_ “Snow,” he stammered out. Yet, even as those words spilled from his tongue, he could not help but feel desire for the blade.

“Yes, it is the ancestral sword of House Targaryen. Yet, as heartbroken as I am to say this, my family has fallen far from grace and power. All that’s left of my house is an old, blind maester, a niece, and a nephew, far across the Narrow Sea in Essos.” He leaned and grasped Jon’s hand once more. “Take it. It was given to you, Jon Snow. It will be necessary, I fear, in the wars to come.”

“In the wars to come,” he echoed dully. He gently took his hand from the old man’s grasp. Carefully, so as to not disturb the velvet, he grasped Dark Sister by the hilt and lifted it from its prison. It was evident that the hilt had been designed for a woman’s hand, but Jon didn’t mind as it fit finely in his hand. He took a practice cut. It flowed through the air. Jon marvelled at its perfection.

"I will be touring Essos after I leave Castle Black. Perchance, if I can find your blood, then I'll be able to pass it on to them," he asked, fully aware that it was treasonous in its way. To give the Targaryens in exile their ancestral sword while his father was Hand of the King. Not to mention the events of the rebellion. His grandfather's, uncle's, and aunt's fates.

The maester showed conflict on his face for a moment before clearing it away. "No." He shook his head, leaving Jon confused. "Bloodraven is entrusting that sword to you, Jon Snow. He is not entrusting it, for you to turn down. He is not entrusting it, for you to turn around and give away. It's yours. Now till you feel the need to pass it on."

“How can you trust me?” he asked, still plagued with doubts.

Smiling gently, Maester Aemon said, “Call it faith.”

Jon swallowed the lump in his throat and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Treat her well, Jon Snow, for she is now yours. And beware, she has a thirst for blood.”

* * *

Jon rapped twice on the oaken door. The reply came shortly, bidding the knocker to enter. He entered and was greeted by a familiar sight. Tyrion sat at his desk, hunched over the Valyrian scroll. A large quill in hand as it scribbled across fresh parchment.

Tyrion glanced up for a brief moment before returning to his work. “Jon, what brings you to my chambers?”

He sat and peeked across toward whatever the dwarf was scribbling. “I’m here to inform you that I’ve decided to leave. Three days hence.”

Tyrion lowered his quill with furrowed brows. Reaching for his flagon, he poured a cup each. Taking a long draught, he asked, grinning, “The cold finally get to you northroners?”

“Eager to see Bran, my lord,” he answered after snorting into his cup.

“But you do not deny it,” he grinned wider. “And I can’t blame you, the septons should start preaching of an eighth hell.” Tyrion shook his head. “No women, no good ale, savage wildling kings to the north and scorn to the south. Add to all that, no _actual_ summer, criminals will begin to think twice before committing their crimes." Jon smiled, and Tyrion took up his quill again.

"Will you be joining us, my lord?" He took a sip of his wine and found it to be a fine vintage -though a tad bit sour.

“Yes, I believe I will. Although this visit has been quite short. Not even three weeks if I’ve been counting correctly,” Tyrion said.

“Would you rather spend three moons’ turns?” Jon asked good-naturedly.

“I’m only pointing out the obvious.” He stopped, looking up at Jon. “What’s _kirimves_ in Common?”

"Joy," he replied without delay. Tyrion nodded and jotted down the translation. Meanwhile, Jon drained his cup to the dregs. He'd told Tyrion that it had been Maester Luwin who'd taught him High Valyrian; he figured that was only half a lie. In truth, the maester had only given them all small lessons in the language. Basic concepts, like milk, water, food, or in Sansa's case: lemon cakes. He'd given up when their reluctance had reared its head too many a time.

It was his memories from where he drew his knowledge. The Rogue Prince, Blackfyre, Bloodraven, the Dragonknight; they all knew High Valyrian extensively. It was in their blood after all. They learned it from their father’s knees and their tours of Essos. _And I know it because Bloodraven thought it necessary._

Tyrion exhaled loudly. Rolling up the scroll, he placed it to the side and filled his cup again. “Have you told the Old Bear yet?” he asked.

Shaking his head, he said, “No, I was waiting to tell you first. See if you would leave with us.”

“Then, you must have made the decision not too long ago.”

"Sometime after morning training." It had been only three days since Maester Aemon had gifted him Dark Sister. He'd hidden the sword with layers of wool and cloth in his chambers. While the morning to lunch was reserved for training and spending time with his friends, afterward he spent his time with Maester Aemon. Blind and old the maester may have been but the gods hadn't stolen his wits off of him, and he found himself thankful for that.

He placed his cup back on the desk. “I’ll be going now, my lord.”

“Are you perchance going to the maester’s side?” Tyrion asked.

“Aye. The old man’s seen a hundred name days, the stories he has to tell…” he said, shaking his head.

“Better than mine?”

"Far better," Jon said, and Tyrion guffawed. Allowing himself a smile, Jon left and stepped out to the bitter cold of the Wall. It was late afternoon. The day had been warm, and it had caused rivulets of water to stream down the Wall's face. Weeping, the black brothers called it.

He found Maester Aemon in the rookery, feeding the ravens with his steward Clydas. “Maester Aemon.” He bowed his head even though the maester wouldn’t be able to see.

“Ah, Jon Snow. Clydas, give him the bucket. He can help feed the ravens for me.” Clydas handed over the bucket and hurried down the ladder. “Toss handfuls of the meat into the cages. The ravens shall do the rest.”

Using his left hand to hold the bucket, he reached into the bucket and came up with a red, slimy hand filled with bloody bits no bigger than a finger joint. He tossed it in with a slight grimace. Already loud to begin with, the raven’s squawking and squabbling grew heated. Several feathers began to fly as certain ravens fought over a certain piece of meat. Jon filled his fist and tossed more in.

"Why are we here?" Jon asked. "You could have just tasked Clydas with feeding the ravens, and we would be in your quarters, comfy by the fire."

Aemon nodded. “I could have. But it’s loud here,” he said flatly.

Jon paused and looked around. "Indeed. I see now," he said. He really did. It was loud enough for no one to eavesdrop. Not that anyone in Castle Black had any real interest as to the goings of a fourteen-year-old boy and the old maester. But it was a valuable thing to know.

“Will Lord Tyrion be leaving with you?” Aemon asked. Jon nodded and threw another fistful to the ravens. “We have only a few days left. Remind me where we left it on.”

“It was the city. We covered the dragon, the dandelion, much of Winterfell,” he said. And indeed they had. Maester Aemon believed that the dandelion represented hope in dire times. Confusion reigned when it came to what he saw of Winterfell. It was clear that it was sacked and the clear culprits to be the Boltons, given their sigil billowing in the wind. Although neither Aemon nor Jon could understand the Greyjoy banner in the mud.

For the feast, the maester believed it to be a warning. He said it telling that the deceased bodies of Robb, his father, and Lady Stark to appear but for the rest of the children to be absent. “Most soldiers and even knights will not hesitate to kill children during war, but the players of the game are more cunning. Children are oft malleable and useful pawns in their ill plots. Indeed, I believe that may have been why your sister was screaming. A willful child, you said. Perhaps if she was kept hostage with the Boltons, she would rebel and only inflict harm upon herself,” the maester had said. When he had mentioned the lady who had noticed him, Aemon grew silent. He said that he did not know why she could have noticed him; although Jon wasn’t sure if he believed him.

He had kept his sojourn to the crypts a secret. Jon had no doubt that it was Bloodraven simply preying on his recurring nightmare rather than anything of importance; and he had other, more pressing matters on his mind than a simple nightmare.

“We already know that the Wall being breached is for the Others and their army. And that horn, you said it must be the Horn of Winter,” Jon recounted.

“The horn blew before the Wall fell, you are sure of this?” Maester Aemon asked.

“Aye.” His hands were dripping with slimy, red blood.

“Then it must be the Horn of Winter. Also known as the Horn of Joramun or simply Joramun’s horn,” the maester said.

“Who _is_ Joramun? You didn’t elaborate yesterday.” Only a few bits and pieces of meat remained so he lifted it and splattered its contents into the cages. The ravens hadn’t stopped shrieking.

“Joramun was a King-beyond-the-Wall. His status is legendary amongst the wildings as they believe that he blew the horn and woke giants from the Earth.”

Taking a rag, he wiped his hand clean. “But that horn can now, supposedly, bring down the Wall? The _same_ horn that supposedly woke the giants?”

The maester shrugged. "It's a tale from thousands of years ago. We don't know if Joramun even really existed; if he ever blew the horn; if the giants woke. All we know is that the horn can supposedly bring the Wall down."

Jon huffed in frustration. “That’s all we have to work with. Fables, dreams, and prophecies.” The maester remained silent. He had told Jon of a prophecy of promised princes and salt and smoke, and how a savior would come and lead the fight against the Others. Briefly, Jon had wondered if the old maester’s mind had finally gone to seed; and he’d barely followed or understood what the old man’s mutterings were about. When Jon had asked for him to clarify, Aemon had seemed to wake, suddenly and frightfully. He’d told Jon to ignore his ramblings and Jon hadn’t paid it much more attention afterward.

Changing tact, he said, “I think I know the knights with snowy cloaks. There were three of them, and I saw seven others.” He glanced around. “The red mountains of Dorne, a round tower ... It was the Tower of Joy, where my father killed the remaining Kingsgaurd of King Aerys.” He looked to Aemon, who sat on the wooden bench; eyes staring at him. “Any ideas as to why he gave me that?” The maester paused, then shook his head.

Jon sighed. "Well, in that case, let's talk about the city."

“What do you recall? Tell me every detail you can remember.”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t remember much. Didn’t get much of a good look.” He closed his eyes, remembering. “It had … high walls and a large port. The sun was low in the sky … Can’t remember if it was dusk or dawn but I do remember that it was resting above a sea.”

“Anything from the city itself?”

“No. Except it had great, bright lights illuminating everything. It was … it was on fire.” He opened his eyes. “It was on fire,” he repeated.

"And the sun. Was it sinking or rising?"

“I can’t remember.”

“Hmm, regardless, that sun rising or sinking into the sea means that the city must look out into the sea from either the east or west. You did not see anything significant within the city? Aside from the flames?”

"No," Jon replied. "It was on fire, the sun was on the horizon. That means White Harbor isn't it."

“Neither is it Sunspear. Or Oldtown. Sunspear has no great port and Oldtown’s bay leads southwest.”

“Could it be King’s Landing? Or Lannisport?” Jon asked.

The maester paused before answering. “They both have high walls and I suppose if you were positioned correctly in King’s Landing, you would see the sun and the sea. As for Lannisport, I can’t remember. I visited it briefly in my youth but I can’t recall how the sun set.”

“And that’s not even counting Essosi cities. I don’t think it matters which city it is. The question should be, _why_ is the city on fire?” Jon asked.

The maester shrugged. “A sacking? An accident? Whichever it is, I have no doubt that it’s an event to come.”

Rubbing his eyes, he noticed how low the sun had fallen. The light was fading quickly, he knew that cold as it may be now it was nothing compared to when the sun set. He said so to Aemon, and he agreed to continue their discussion in his quarters. As he moved to help Aemon stand, he noted a raven who had stopped shrieking and was staring at him. Its eyes were beady and black.

Then, he remembered something from Bloodraven’s journal. “Maester. There was this line in Bloodraven’s journal, it read, _‘and I had noticed it through the eyes of my birds.’_ What did he mean by that?” Jon asked.

“Do you know the riddle, ‘How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have?’” Jon nodded. “A thousand eyes and one,” The maester said with a chuckle. “Bloodraven was a skinchanger. And he used his ability to see through ravens, owls, nightingales, and so on. It was one of his ways to spy on smallfolk, lords, armies.”

“Useful,” Jon replied flatly. His mind already swirling with possibilities.


	5. Roads Taken And Untaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion wakes up to a familiar sight and tries to understand it better, Jon coming home is anything but normal, Bran tackles with his dreams as he hears voices, and Jon says farewell to Tyrion and goes to the godswood for alone time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this took way too long. I should have had this up in May but whatever I guess. The past is written, the ink is dry.
> 
> Also, for the people who may be confused by random intervals of different people in Jon's chapters, those are his 'new' memories. The ones that he got after his coma. When they appear in the story, it just means that he is thinking back on that memory in particular. He has all those memories, they don't appear as new when we see them, at this point Jon has already had those memories for a couple of months.
> 
> Also I should say that I'm looking for a beta, if you're interested you can contact me through the email in my profile. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

**Tyrion Lannister**

Jon Snow was a very strange boy, he decided, watching the grey-eyed youth.

For starters, he always awoke far earlier than dawn, and, seeing no sense in pursuing the allures of sleep, he would take up watch, relieving one of his guardsmen and sending them to slumber. Then he would sit, leaning backward on a tree, free of sticky sap, head tilted back to view the sky with closed eyes. Occasionally, his wolf would join him, dropping its now quite large head into his master’s lap, his master quietly and gently stroking the brilliantly white fur.

Tyrion had thought little of it upon finding the northron bastard in that pose for the first time. Groggy from his interrupted sleep, he had asked in a sort of daze what the boy was doing up so early. Not breaking his pose, he answered, “Nightmares.” Tyrion had nodded, understanding.

But then there was the food.

It had happened a handful of times; mostly at dinner, sometimes at lunch, though strangely never at breakfast. Jon would take his bowl or plate and would spend ample time pushing it around and glancing around their surroundings. Then, he would spear a small morsel and place it into his mouth with a pained look. After another few morsels swallowed with clear nausea, his appetite would seemingly open like sluice gates and he would end up devouring the whole plate with scarce a hint of uneasiness in his expression.

There was also his connection with his wolf — which in itself was a _direwolf,_ — the pair, master and companion, seemed to share the same mind at times. Then there was his style with the sword, which from his memory bank he believed it to be a slight but similar to a bravo’s style; his fluency in High Valyrian; his considerable knowledge despite his youth.

Yet all that paled in comparison to his character. Unlike any other lordling that Tyrion had the pleasure — and many times displeasure — of meeting, Jon was quiet, reserved, observant, yet not _shy_. Bawdy japes and colorful boasting were replaced by piercing observations and sharp, yet subtle barbs. There was no sauntering presence, no easy smiles, and although a dry wit showed itself occasionally, Tyrion had noted that his japes were rather smart, too smart in fact.

Jon didn’t remind him of a young, rich lordling but rather a cunning, cold commander. A warrior in the budding if his skill with the blade was to be measured and counted.

Briefly, Tyrion had wondered if his disposition was due to him being bastard, but he had tossed the idea soon enough. Unlike many bastards, Jon seemed to truly love his half-siblings. Occasionally, Jon’s polite, reserved mask would open up and Tyrion would be privy to childhood stories filled with mischief and fondness. There didn’t seem to be much bitterness to him, yet Tyrion wondered if that was because the boy hid it well and showed only what he wanted to show.

Plus, Tyrion had never truly bought into the Seven’s regard for bastards. Not all bastards were evil and filled with hatred, just as not all trueborn children were good, loving, and faithful. _The Faith should look at my family for proof on the latter._

And so there he was, bundled in his warmest cloak, teeth clattering in the pre-dawn chill, watching the boy that had piqued his interest. Leaned against an old oak, Jon sat, eyes closed; wolf nowhere to be seen. In the distance, he heard crows screeching wildly. Through the thickets of trees, the moon slowly wilted as the sky began to brighten; going from black to deep blue. Dawn was scarcely an hour away.

Approaching slowly on his stiff legs, he took in the boy’s rather unkempt appearance. Wrapped up in a cloak that was as pale as his skin, Jon sat with disheveled hair that brought to light how long his brown locks fallen. The garbs underneath the cloak were wrinkled from sleep.

His wolf, Ghost, appeared suddenly from the right, ruby eyes taking in the dwarf’s presence. “My lord,” Jon greeted eyes still closed. Taking a sniff of Tyrion, it seemed to shrug before going to his master’s side to rest its head on his lap.

“Jon,” Tyrion nodded. “How’d you know it was me?”

At the question, Jon opened his eyes and silently observed the dwarf. “Your steps are loud and uneven,” he said after a pause. _Quite the keen ears._ “What woke you?”

“Just the need to take a piss. You?” He asked while stepping past the pair and nearing the trunk of a pine. The cold air pricked his cock and he shuddered violently.

“I drew watch.”

“And no doubt that chased the night terrors away,” he said grinning. He finished and shook off the last drops.

Walking back, he took a seat on the stump from across where Jon sat. He had to wipe off some drifts of snow before sitting down. Sitting parallel to one another, Tyrion stared thoughtfully at Jon – who was staring back mildly, eyelids half shut – wondering whether or not to try to help. “What do you dream of?”

Jon didn’t answer right away. Instead, he simply looked back and Tyrion noted how his eyes were roving over his stunted figure, as though searching for a weakness. Taking a breath, he answered, “Quite a few things.”

“Well, why don’t you start with the worst one.”

“Why do you ask?” He hadn’t snapped. He had asked patiently, warily. Less like a wounded animal lashing out and more like an amused, old man. His eyes had fully opened too. “Why do you care?”

Tyrion gave a half-smile and shrugged. "Maybe it's the wine still speaking. Maybe it’s the tender spot I have for cripples and bastards and broken things.” Jon cocked his head. “Maybe you remind me of myself when I was younger and I’d just lost an uncle.”

Sharp eyes glazed over him, staring, searching for weaknesses or explanation perhaps. Though he didn't mind exactly, he'd just stated his reason bold and clear, and if Jon found anything else in his expression, he figured it would be sadness and a bit of longing.

“Do you still have wine? Speaking leaves my throat dry.”

"It’s in my tent but I’m not in the mood to go and fetch it.”

“That’s alright, Ghost can go and get it.” And with that the albino stood and stalked off, returning just a few moments later with a skin of sour Dornish.

Uncorking it, the boy took a long draught before flinging it to Tyrion, who took an equally long draught. “My Uncle is just one of the many things that appear in my nightmares, and he’s far from the worst,” he said gravely.

“And what is the worst?” Tyrion asked, a morbid curiosity running through him.

“A red-eye, a dragon as tall as the sky, dark green flames that engulf a sea of black, a burning city, nonsense in truth, all of it. But still … quite terrifying to see it,” Jon said, managing a small smile at the end.

Jon Snow was right, it was all nonsense. Another draught went burning down his throat, and a slight dizziness rose to his head. He looked down at the skin. It was one of his stronger wines, and he hadn’t broken his fast yet; nothing in his belly to help soothe the wine.

"I can imagine it is. I used to dream of dragons myself when I was younger. Though I would never describe them as tall as the sky," Tyrion said. The sky was steadily lightening, and so was the forest and ground around them.

Shrugging, Jon stood and let his pale cloak fall upon a bunch of dried, rotting leaves. He stretched, his still thin form making him look like a cat. “Aye, maybe it’s that wine you’ve been plying me with that’s giving me all these terrible dreams,” he japed.

Tyrion snorted. “I’ve not been plying you with anything other than court gossip. And besides,” he took another draught, “I’ve been drinking from the same wine as you, yet no nightmares to speak of.”

Instead of japing back, Jon walked a few paces to the side and reached behind a tree, drawing back with a bow and some arrows in his hands. Looking past the boy, his eyes dimly found a target board strung up to a tree some fifty paces away.

“A bit early to be practicing archery, is it not?”

“It’s light enough, and we barely have time to practice on the road,” Jon said. He agreed. Their party had set a grueling pace south, only a week had passed since they had departed from the Wall, and the Stark guardsmen were already speaking of being back in Winterfell in a week. Considering how it had taken nearly twice as long to reach the Wall, to begin with, the amount of distance that their party had covered had shocked Tyrion.

“That isn’t Morrec’s bow by any chance is it?”

“No. It’s Poxy Tym’s.” He notched an arrow as he spoke. “I’ve only really been an adequate archer, but since my coma, I’ve developed a bit of a taste.” Drawing back the arrow, Jon’s arms trembled from the pressure. His strength had wasted away in his coma, and he was fighting to gain it all back and more. And he believed that it was working. This boy was not as thin as the one he found below the weirwood, though he was still considerably thin. He released it but the arrow went astray and hit only the edge of the target.

Jon huffed and notched another arrow. “We were speaking of uncles,” Jon reminded him.

“Yes. I lost an uncle too, well two uncles, truth be told. But Gerion’s story relates to you better.”

Jon released the arrow. It hit the edge again. “How so?”

Another swig of wine. “Gerion, he … led an expedition to Valyria.” Jon looked back, a bewildered look on his face. Tyrion nodded. “He wanted to reclaim the ancestral sword of House Lannister, Brightroar. And also, he couldn’t stand to be around my father, but that’s a rather common occurrence.” Jon snorted.

“Half his crew abandoned him in Volantis and he had to buy slaves to fill his ship again. Then he sailed into the Smoking Sea and never came back out. So, you see, we have a bit in common. Both of us are bastard outcasts of Great Houses, we both share a fondness for wine, and we have lost uncles," Tyrion finished while taking another swig. He was feeling more than a slight bit of dizziness.

“Lost," he pronounced the word as though he was tasting it. "Surely a person is only lost if _he_ doesn’t know where he is.”

“Leave the bloody riddles to the maesters, Jon.”

“I don’t wish to speak of this anymore.” He turned around and notched another arrow.

“Jon, I’m trying to help you,” Tyrion said.

“My uncle isn’t dead!” He drew and released the arrow quickly. It missed the target. “Whereas yours certainly is. A man doesn’t sail into Old Valyria and sail back out. My uncle on the other hand.” Lowering his bow, he paused. “Best ranger in the Night’s Watch, and more than a match for some damn wildlings.” His voice had cracked at the end though Tyrion didn’t notice.

Years had passed since his uncle had sailed away and not returned. In those years, Tyrion had reminisced often about his uncle Gerion, how he had taught him tumbling tricks and had brought him rare books to read. His uncle had looked past his deformity and accepted him, and Tyrion had loved him for that.

That silver horse had long stopped coming.

Smiling sadly, he took another swig, finding the skin to be near empty. He glanced at Jon, wanting to see if he had missed anymore shot. Yet, rather than that, he found Snow to be standing with his back turned; the bow limp at his side, the arrow was forgotten on the ground. Slouched and shaking, Jon Snow looked as though in pain. He smiled sadly, letting the silence fill the air around them.

Tyrion swayed on his stump. Drinking wine first thing in the morning was not the way to break one’s fate as the burning in his belly suggested.

A small, cold tingle on his nose broke through his stormy thoughts. Tyrion looked up and saw that it was snowing. Or rather the wind had scattered the freshly fallen snow off their high pedestals in the tree branches. And as the world dawned bright and sharp, he realized that snow had never looked more beautiful. _I loved a maid as white as winter,_ he remembered, _with moonglow in her hair._

As the shower of ethereal snow came to a halt, Jon came and sat back down. His eyes were troubled but his expression was as even as ever. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. Tyrion only hummed in question. “I didn’t mean to dig up old griefs. I’m sorry for saying your uncle was dead for certain.”

 _An apology?_ Tyrion stared in hidden astonishment. _I wonder if he sings and dances too?_ He suppressed a snort. “I _was_ the one who brought up uncles, but I accept your apology,” he said, dazing at the snow melting in Jon’s hair.

Ghost rubbed his head against the boy’s chest as a silence filled the forest around them. No robins were singing, no crows were squawking. Only the whistles of the wind sounded as the sky turned increasingly blue. _Where are the birds?_ Tyrion started whistling, adding his chorus to the harsh melodies of the wind.

“Do you know the song?” Tyrion asked.

“The Seasons of My Love. Myrish. It’s one of Sansa’s favorites.”

“The first girl I ever bedded used to sing it to me, and I've never been able to put the song out of my head.” The skin was empty so Tyrion let it slip from his hand to the ground. “I met her on a night as much as the opposite as it can be from today. It was past sunset, warm not cold, lush, and lively trees rather than these spiky, sleeping ones. Jaime and I were riding back from Lannisport when we stumbled upon her, clothes were torn. She was being chased by two outlaws who were yelling threats. Jaime ripped his sword from its sheath and chased after them while I stayed back and comforted the girl. Gave her my cloak and some of my water.

“By the time Jaime had come back, I had already coaxed out a story from her. She was an orphan, a crofter’s daughter, low-born, unwashed … and lovely. With a face that would break your heart. Jaime was all worked up and he headed back to Casterly Rock for more men, angry at outlaws so close to our lands. He saw it as an insult. She and I stayed behind in an inn.

“She was hungrier than I would have believed. We finished two whole chickens and part of a third and drank a flagon of wine, talking. I was thirteen, she was scarce a year older. The wine went to my head, I fear. And the next thing I know, I’m sharing her bed. I still don't know where I found the courage but I did it. She cried when I broke her maidenhead but afterward, she kissed me and sang me that song

“I married her,” he added as an afterthought, an afterthought that came out as haunted.

“You?” Jon asked in astonishment.

Tyrion nodded. “Have you ever been in love, Jon?”

“No.”

“Good. Save yourself the heartbreak.”

“How did it happen?” Jon asked.

“Oh, you would be amazed at what fifty pieces of silver, a few lies, and a drunken septon can achieve. We wed the next day, the pigs were the only witnesses aside from the drunken septon of course. We ended up – ”

“No not the wedding,” he interrupted, “how did it fail? The marriage?”

“A crofter’s daughter is not fit to marry a Lannister.” Tyrion sighed. “I’ll spare you the details, but long story short, my father learned of it from the septon and my brother and put an end to it. And I learned a very valuable lesson then.”

“Which is,” the boy asked.

“A Lannister is better than the sheep,” he echoed his father’s words. “And a whore should only be paid in coin.”

Picking up his skin, Tyrion stood, head still dizzy from the wine. The birds began to sing their tunes – Jon’s head snapped up - as the sun crested over the horizon. “Our camp is waking,” he told Jon. A light chatter was beginning to reach them. Tyrion started to head back to his tent when Jon’s voice called him back.

“My lord, you said you had a tender spot for cripples, bastards, and broken things.”

“I like to believe that I do, given that I’m two of the things you just described.”

Jon sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Bran, the letter said he was crippled and that he wouldn’t ever walk again. I,” he sighed again, this time out of frustration, “Help him, Tyrion, please.”

“What help could I give him? I am no maester, to ease his pain. I have no spells to give back his legs.”

“You helped me. You told me to use my bastard-birth as my armor.” Jon pointed out.

“That was nothing, wind, and words."

“Then give Bran your words also.” Frustration and pain were written plain on Jon’s face, bare for all to see, and Tyrion realized his sincerity.

Tyrion nodded, saying, “I know what it is to love a brother, Jon. I will give Bran whatever small help is in my power.”

Jon bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord of Lannister.”

“Well, it seems Morrec is making bacon,” he noted. Stretching, he said, “I think I’ll go and lie down in my tent. I would advise the same although seeing your aim, I think it best for you to work on your archery. You’re not going to be winning any tourneys with that piss-poor performance.”

Laughing, Jon went back to his bow. Silently watching, Tyrion saw the boy nock his arrow, draw and release it.

It hit true in the center.

**Jon Snow**

It was tense from the moment they entered the hall.

A dozen guardsmen were present and filed across the walls while Jon, Tyrion, and Yoren stood in the center, the dwarf’s guards just behind them. Ghost was lying on his side by him. The score of Stark guardsmen that had accompanied Jon to the Wall had reported to the barracks as soon as they had passed beneath Winterfell’s great gates. Jon noted immediately that neither Lady Stark nor Ser Rodrik was present.

Robb sat in their father’s high seat, wearing boiled leather and ringmail, a bare sword on his knees. His stern countenance had broken into a warm nod and small smile when he saw Jon but had clouded over again when he set his eyes on Tyrion.

“Any man of the Night’s Watch is welcome within the halls of Winterfell as is my brother.” His voice rang stern and lordly.

“Since I am neither, I take it that hospitality does not extend to me. Do I take your meaning, boy?” Tyrion asked. He sighed, recognizing Tyrion’s prickled pride and obvious attempt to rile his brother. He resisted the urge to sigh again when he realized that Robb had taken the bait.

“I am the lord of Winterfell while my father and mother are away, Lannister,” he said standing and pointing with the sword. “I am not your boy and you best remember that.”

“Robb, his lordship is only asking for clarity,” he said placatingly. Although his eyes were shouting a different message. _Fool, don’t take the bait!_

It was then the doors opened, revealing Maester Luwin and Bran, being carried by Hodor. “Bran,” he breathed out, his face breaking into a rare, full smile. Rushing over to his brother’s side, he threw his arms around his brother’s neck, hugging him tight as though to ensure himself that Bran had truly woken and was not still lying near death.

Bran’s arms were thinner than before but that did not seem to matter as he hugged back with equal vigor. “I was scared you weren’t coming back,” Bran breathed into his ear.

Jon hugged him tighter. “You believed I would leave without saying a proper goodbye." Letting go, he stepped back to arm's length and let his eyes wander across Bran's form. His entire body was thinner than before his fall but not as thin as when Jon had seen him before leaving Winterfell. Shaggy and matted, his auburn hair reached his shoulders, which reminded Jon of his own much-needed haircut.

“So, it is true, the boy lives. I could scarce believe it when I heard it,” Tyrion said as he looked backward. “You Starks are hard to kill.”

“You Lannisters best remember that,” Robb said, lowering his sword. Frowning, Jon wondered why his brother was so hostile as Hodor carried Bran to the table and Jon slowly walked after him. Ghost followed, sitting just by him.

_Lannisters? Not just Tyrion then._

As Bran sat on a seat that dwarfed him, Robb put his hand on his shoulder, and said, “You said you had business with Bran. Well, here he is, Lannister.”

Slowly leaning back against the table, Jon watched the dwarf stare at Bran with his mismatched eyes. One black, one green. “The green eye is to show that I'm only _half_ a Lannister,” he had once jested. With gleaming curiosity in his eyes, Tyrion spoke at last. “Jon told me you were quite the climber, Bran. How is it that you fell that day?”

“I _never_.” Bran insisted. Hearing his tone, something lurched inside Jon’s belly. A flaming, crackling whip that wished to punish those who would hurt his brother. Though despite the fire burning in his belly, Jon kept his face composed.

_"Every time you give something up about yourself, that’s another arrow in your enemy’s quiver.” The boy flicked away a lock of white hair as he gazed up solemnly at his kingly half-brother who was reading some thick tome. They were in his solar, just the two of them. Putting down the tome, he turned to the young boy. “Control yourself and you can control your enemies.”_

“Curious,” Tyrion replied as Maester Luwin explained that Bran could not remember anything from the fall or the ascent before it.

Jon eyed the dwarf. “The gift now,” he reminded.

“Of course,” Tyrion said as he pulled a scroll from his belt. As Tyrion carefully described his design, Jon sat pondering on Robb’s hostility. His brother’s dislike of the Crown Prince had been understandable, but surely that dislike hadn’t extended over to the imp.

 _“Just because one apple is bad doesn’t mean you should cut down the whole tree,”_ a voice echoed, though Jon wasn’t sure who had said that.

Passively, Jon watched as Tyrion and the maester discussed the saddle design, Maester Luwin asking questions and suggestions and Tyrion answering them politely. Jon liked this side of the Lannister. Whenever he wasn’t drunk or bitter, Tyrion could be charming in his own, patient way, although his snide remarks, prickly pride, and general lack of respect for others’ thoughts shadowed and shackled that side of him.

Robb seemed puzzled as the discussion came to an end. “Is this some trap, Lannister? What’s Bran to you? Why should you want to help him?”

“Because I asked it of him,” he said. Looking at his brother, he wondered if he had always been as blunt and brazen. Knowing he wouldn’t like the answer, Jon resisted pondering over the question. “Admittedly I didn’t know what kind of help Bran would receive but I was confident that Tyrion Lannister wouldn’t disappoint. And he hasn’t.”

“Graceful words, and welcome too. Perhaps you could take some lessons from your half-brother, boy.” Tyrion said much to the Stark heir’s incense.

Just then, the door to the yard came flying open, and Rickon came bursting in with Grey Wind, Shaggy, and Bran’s wolf; sunlight streaming ahead of them. The boy stopped short by the door, breathless from playing, but the wolves continued on. Their eyes caught Tyrion, or perhaps they caught his scent. Bran’s wolf and Grey Wind padded forward, growling. One on the right, one on the left.

“The wolves do not like your smell, Lannister," Theon commented.

“Then perhaps it's time I leave," Tyrion said. He took a step away … and Shaggy came out of the shadows behind him, snarling. Alarmed by their increasing aggression, Jon lurched from his leaning and pulled on his tether with Ghost. Words were not required as Ghost immediately bound from a seated position to stand in between Tyrion and the wolves. Bran's wolf lunged and Tyrion recoiled, but Ghost was suddenly there, blocking his littermate's path with his body. The albino kept his teeth well hidden, allowing his considerable presence to stay the fight. 

Realizing his brother’s inaction, Jon turned, yelling, “Call them!” Only later would he realize how powerful his voice had come off as.

It was Bran who broke out of his stupor first, calling his wolf – whose name was Summer, it seemed as though Bran had finally named his wolf – to his side. Robb followed suit and so did Rickon but only after Bran told him to again.

“How interesting," Tyrion said flatly as he rubbed his brow clean of sweat with his scarlet scarf. 

“Are you well, my lord?” Jon asked. He eyed the direwolves as Ghost trotted back to his side. The imp’s guards had their hand on their hilts.

“Yes, apart from my damp breeches, I would call myself fine.”

Robb looked shaken as he spoke. “The wolves … I don’t know why they did that.” _I know how,_ the bastard thought, _but I still don’t know why._

“Doubtless they took me for dinner. I am glad for your intervention, Snow, they would have found me quite indigestible.” Stiffly, he gave a small bow. “Now if you truly do not mind, I will be going now.”

With those last parting words, Tyrion struggled out of the halls, past Rickon and the guardsmen. His men followed closely.

Jon sighed as his brother woodenly addressed Yoren, inviting the black brother to dine with them later that night. He knew Tyrion would be at Winter Town for the night. For all of his flaws, Tyrion was rather strict in his punctuality, in the sense that he would only begin travelling at dawn. That gave Jon some time to go down and apologize for the wolves’ behavior, and mayhap for his brother’s too.

“Jon,” Robb said as he rounded the dais and hugged him. His brother had assigned some servant to see Yoren to a prepared chamber as the guardsmen filed out of the hall. “I’m glad to see you hale. But I will say that you shouldn’t have gone to the Wall. You should be gaining back your color in the sun not losing it in the snow.”

Smiling at his brother’s poor attempt at a jape, he said, “Aye, well I’ll see to gain it back in the Essosi sun.”

The red-haired youth’s face turned a slight shade of sour at the mention of Essos. “Yes, we needs must talk about that.”

“Robb?” Jon asked. He ignored the questioning tone and instead turned to Bran who was being lifted by Hodor.

“I’ll carry Bran myself, Hodor.” The simple giant gently lowered the young boy onto Robb’s back. Hoisting him up a bit more securely, Robb turned to him, smiling. “Come on, Jon. You can fix your hair in the looking glass later.”

A roll of the eyes was answer enough as Robb laughed and Bran giggled. Not forgetting about the wolves’ hostility and his own brother’s aggression, Jon followed along with Ghost and Summer.

As Robb carried Bran to his chambers, he fell behind a little, thinking onto the entire exchange with Tyrion and the wolves and his brother’s hostility. It wasn’t confusing to understand why the wolves had essentially attacked Lannister, as Jon knew that the stem of all of this came from Robb’s anger. So, the entire question rested on understanding Robb’s anger which, given the heir’s bluntness, shouldn’t be too difficult, he thought.

Passing the guards stationed near Bran’s chambers, he climbed the many steps required to reach it and, to his vast dismay and discomfort, found himself exhausted and panting by the time he reached the top. Of course, Jon had known that steps would be difficult after his comatose. At the Wall, he had not even considered the possibility of taking the massive stairwell to the top, acknowledging that he would most likely fail a third of the way up. Yet this, struggling with a stairwell covering an elevation of sixty feet at most, was different. Perhaps he had not recovered as much as he had thought. _I’ll just have to work harder to recover then,_ he thought, gritting his teeth and reaching to open the door.

“Whoa,” Jon called out as his hand shot out to stop the door from colliding into his face.

“Sorry there, Snow,” Robb said as he stepped out. Closing the door, he said, “You need to speak with Bran.” Jon furrowed his brows, noting the fluster and slight trembling in his voice. “He told me that he had visions, that he was falling and that he saw Mother and Father and the girls, and he mentioned a crow with three eyes-”

“And I will,” he interrupted as Robb’s talking grew more flustered. “But first we must talk as well. Where’s Lady Stark and Ser Rodrik? Why were you so angry with Lannister in the Great Hall?”

Robb inhaled and exhaled deeply before speaking. “Mother and Ser Rodrik are travelling to King's Landing or should have arrived by now. Mother believes she has found a lead. The Lannisters. She thinks the Lannisters were the ones who pushed Bran off the tower, she thinks it was them who sent that _catspaw_ ,” his countenance twisting as he said that word, “after Bran.”

“But what proof is there,” he asked, shaking his head.

“The knife the catspaw died clutching. The blade was Valyrian steel, its hilt dragonbone. How do you think a creature like him had such a weapon? It was given to him,” Robb insisted.

Jon thought about it. “Is there more? Because it looks like you are jumping to conclusi-”

“There is,” he answered, holding up his hands to stop him. “My aunt, Lysa Arryn believes that the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn. And on the day Bran fell, there was a big hunt with everyone in attendance. Everyone except the Kingslayer. He was here in the castle. Bran didn’t fall, he was thrown.”

A frown shrouded his face as he contemplated on what he had just been told. Bran was thrown? By the Kingslayer? “Bran has always been so surefooted,” he muttered to Robb’s nod. _But why,_ he questioned. There had to be a motive, a reason. Tyrion had mentioned offhandedly that his brother held no liking for the Starks. Yet that was not reason enough in Jon’s eyes. “Why would they do it? Even the Kingslayer must surely flinch at killing children.”

“My lady mother said that there is no limit to Lannister ambition.”

Jon slowly nodded his head. “Where was he found? Bran.”

“By the foot of the Broken Tower.”

Closing his eyes, he rubbed his brow trying to contain the headache building. The Broken Tower: a morbid place gone to ruin and decay that was abandoned long before even his father was born. _A perfect place to not be overheard._ “Perhaps he stumbled onto something he wasn't supposed to see. Is what Lady Arryn said true? Is there a way to challenge its veracity?"

Robb shook his head. “She went to the trouble of sending it in secret, and in a language only she and my mother understand. It was a warning.”

 _A warning for what? She’s playing the game, there must be a reason behind the reason she gave for why she sent it._ Jon shook his head. He was assuming too much with too much secondhand knowledge. There was much going on that he did not understand or know. _I need the bigger picture,_ he thought. He would deal with it later, he decided.

“Is that why you were angry with Tyrion?” Jon asked.

“Aye. He’s the Queen and Kingslayer’s brother. And he was here when both the fall and the attack happened. Although,” his voice quieted along with his anger. “I truly don’t understand what happened with the wolves.”

“I do," he blurted out. At Robb's inquiring look, he answered. "I don't understand why Shaggydog and Bran's wolf was hostile but Grey Wind was such because your anger leached onto him. The bond you share goes both ways, Robb. Your feelings affect him as do his feelings affect you. But that doesn't mean you will suddenly become wolfish!" he said as he witnessed Robb's increasingly horrified face. "Nor does it mean Grey Wind will start talking. It just means you both know what the other is feeling."

Robb fell silent before asking, “Is that how you and Ghost are?"

“In a manner.”

“Do you know all this because of your …” he struggled to find the words. “… newfound … memories?”

“Yes," he answered. If he closed his eyes, he would be able to see and hear it all. The instructions, the rules, what was forbidden, and what was not. And how to get around what was forbidden, he thought with a wry and small smile.

“I don't think Tyrion was involved," Jon said, breaking the small silence that had enveloped between them. “He mentioned how the Queen dislike him greatly, and I remember he was drunk in his chambers during the night of the attack.”

“Aye, drunk so he could forget his guilt in murdering a child!” He vented to no one in particular.

“Robb,” he grabbed his brother’s shoulder. “We’ll catch the villain who’s behind all this. But I know it’s not Tyrion. If it was, he wouldn’t have bothered giving Bran the saddle design, nor would have befriended me.” He gave a squeeze. “Trust me, Stark.” Robb breathed deeply and nodded.

“Good. Now you said Bran had visions?” Jon wondered if it was connected to Bloodraven somehow. Maester Aemon had told him that Bloodraven was responsible for his visions and new memories. It was likely that the old Lord Commander was responsible for his brother’s visions too, Jon thought. Perhaps these new sets of images would help him figure out his own musings.

“Aye. Visions about three-eyed crows and falling.”

“I’ll speak with him about them then.”

“Perhaps you can also try to talk to him about not complaining about Luwin’s potions and herbs.”

“I’ll have to agree with him there. The old maester could add a drop of honey or three,” he said dryly.

Robb laughed but grew somber quickly as he reflected on something. “We should speak about your tour of Essos.”

He nodded. “I was thinking I might stay a few days before departing for White Harbor. I know father promised twenty guards but I think that’s too many. Ten should be more than enough.”

“Could you stay longer?” Robb asked bluntly.

Jon furrowed his brow. “Oh. Why?”

He sighed and stayed silent. As though he was gathering his thoughts into one thorough explanation. “I need help. Mother and Ser Rodrik are gone, and I can’t trust Theon after what you said about what you saw. I know that’s assuming but …” He shook his head. “Maester Luwin is only a maester, Rickon’s been miserable since everyone left and I don’t know how to deal with him. Half the time he clings himself to my leg and the other half he’s wandering around with only the wolves as company.

“And Bran …” He hung his head. “I can’t even imagine what he’s feeling. And with everything … I need your help, Jon. I feel overwhelmed by everything. Stay for a while!” He pleaded, looking Jon in the eye.

Jon looked away, biting his lips. Stay in Winterfell? He wasn’t sure. There was Lady Stark to think about. She would surely come home soon and have him leave immediately. Not even father had wanted him to stay in Winterfell when he left for King’s Landing. He had wanted to send Jon to one of his bannermen, not stay in this keep. “I’m not a Stark,” he heard himself murmur.

“I don’t care for that,” Robb said fiercely. “You’re my brother, and I want your help.”

Tears came unbidden to his eyes but he blinked them away. "I'll give you my answer later. Now, I should speak to Bran." Robb accepted and went away.

Steeling himself, Jon opened the door and walked in, ready to talk about three-eyed crows and falling.

**Bran Stark**

Silence filled his chambers, impenetrable, and unconquerable.

On his bed, Bran lay, arms wrapped around Summer’s neck, watching the dark recesses in his chambers. They were mostly situated in the corners or under the tables and chairs, but right now Bran’s eyes were glued to the cold fireplace.

It was a like a pit of tar, he thought aimlessly. Light from the window didn’t fall upon the fireplace, and in the low light, all he could make out was black. Not even the faint outlines of ash heaps and burnt out logs were saved from the overwhelming darkness.

There was nothing there, he knew. Except for ashen coal and used up logs. Nothing to cause him harm and pain. But from his position on the bed, it looked like the entrance to a pitch-dark corridor. A corridor leading to the depths of evil.

He waited, expecting a pair of eyes to glow up from the depths of the darkness. The pair of eyes would grow to include legs and arms and a head. And before Bran could scream _it_ would be standing there before the bed, glowing with malice and with a grin to match its twisted and evil form.

His breathing grew deeper and more panicked at the same time. His hands grew clammy as he clutched Summer tighter to his heaving breast. He waited for the monster to appear. To swallow him up whole and take him to its home where a thousand lives would be lived and a thousand deaths would be had. Where not even all the desperate screams in all the world pleading for mercy would be able to penetrate its aura of evil. The boy didn’t know how he knew this except that he knew he knew this as he waited for the dreaded eyes to appear.

One heartbeat.

Two heartbeats.

Three.

He blinked. There was nothing there but shadows and the whispers of Old Nan’s tales.

His eyes flitted to the window providing a low shade of light and felt tears come to him from frustration. _Stupid,_ he thought, knuckling away the tears. Bran’s eighth name day had passed and gone and here he was still crying like a babe. He was a man grown now, too old to cry.

He studied the gray-white clouds that were hovering above Winterfell, providing a dull but comfortable light for them all. _The crow lied to me,_ he thought bitterly. ‘Fly or die!’ it had said, and Bran had flown for just the barest amount of a moment before he was shackled. Shackled by his _useless_ legs.

It was cruel of the crow to give him only a taste of the banquet. It would have been better to not even have been given the taste at all. To not know what he had missed out upon would have been a blessing.

 _They all lied to me, and left me,_ he thought with more bitterness than before. Father, who had said that Bran would ride to King’s Landing on a real horse; they had left him behind and continued on. Mother, who had promised to stay in Winterfell; she had left as soon as it was possible. Even Old Nan, who had said that she would be here when he returned from the Great Hall and had promised to finish her story; she had left by the time he had come back. Only her knitting needles were left behind as though to prove to Bran’s mind that she really _had_ been there. _Click, click, click,_ he remembered.

“Crows are all liars,” he repeated. It had just been a dream, he thought reassuringly. He had never flown and the crow never had three eyes. It had had three eyes because … because for the same reason he had seen dragons and antler men and serpent dragons and spiders. Because it had been a dream. It had never happened except in his head, he should not get too fixated on what he had only dreamed. Lest he be called mad.

The silence seemed to agree with him.

_“Madness is just genius misunderstood.”_

Bran jolted up from where he had been lying. Summer was wakened by the jolt and scrambled to get to his feet. Feverishly, he glanced around, eyes jumping from every crook to every crack, wondering where the voice had come from. His wolf was softly nipping at the hem of his sleeve; Summer had not heard it.

The door creaked open and in entered Jon. His brother had always been of slight build, yet after the coma that he had endured, he looked as gaunt as a spear, though perhaps it was because he had grown a few inches taller. Even his long face seemed a bit longer and sharper than before. The boyish fat of youth had evaporated.

“Bran, are you well?” Jon asked, concernedly eyeing his appearance.

He breathed out slowly, eyes still flitting across the room as he remembered the voice. Forcing a smile, he said, “I’m fine, just a bit cold.” Lie he had not as the room was quite chilly from the lack of fire in the hearth.

“Let me light a fire then.” He knelt in front of the hearth and worked on coaxing a fire from the ash. As Jon worked, Bran gazed over his new, lighter colored garbs. Jon had always preferred wearing muted hues of brown and grey, with his cloak even being mistaken for black occasionally. Now, it seemed as though he had shed that layer off him. His cloak was pale grey, almost white like snow. His leather jerkin was dyed a dark beige, as were most of his other garbs, excepting shades of colorful blue here and there.

It almost seemed as though his brother was avoiding wearing dark clothes.

“How was the Wall?” Bran asked.

Jon sighed and momentarily paused from his work before carrying on. “It was … it was the Wall. No words can do it justice. You know, Bran, you _say_ the Wall is seven hundred feet tall, you _know_ the Wall is seven hundred feet tall, but you can't see those seven hundred feet, until you see it." 

_Until you see it._ Jon had promised that they would see the Wall together, he remembered now. Yet, that had only been a lie. Just like the crow’s lie about flying. Old Nan with her stories. Mother and Father with _their_ promises. It was all a lie. Bran could feel himself getting sick. _At least he came back,_ he thought comfortingly. Before remembering that Jon was to leave soon, for Essos.

He wondered who would lie and leave next. Robb? Rickon? Maester Luwin? _All lies,_ he thought bitterly.

A healthy glow was coming from the hearth as Jon stood and turned to face him. Sadness was written all over his face. Jon walked forward, and knelt by his bedside; his footsteps were loud against the floorboards. “I know that we talked about seeing the Wall together for the first time and I know that I went ahead and saw it. But this time, I promise you, Bran. We’ll see it together one day.”

Jon smiled. “By that time your saddle and horse should be finished, and we can ride up together, just the two of us. I know my way around so I can show you the ice cages and how the dawn looks like from atop the Wall.”

Bran couldn’t help but ask. “Will I truly be able to ride?”

“You will. I trust Tyrion Lannister,” he said with deep conviction. “And on horseback, you’ll be as tall as any of them.” Bran only nodded, hoping for them to be right and scared that it was just another lie.

“Has uncle Benjen come back?” he asked despite knowing the answer.

A shake of the head was his answer. Bran lay back down onto his bed, deep in thought. Uncle Benjen was lost. _Lost or gone?_ His uncle was the best ranger in the Night’s Watch. Benjen Stark himself had even said so. Who could have done it? The wildlings or … the _things_ he had seen haunting the ice beyond the Wall.

A weight pressed down to the side of his bed. It was Jon, who had sat on the bed. “Lord Commander Mormont thinks Uncle Benjen is still alive. He thinks the wildlings may have captured him.” Bran only nodded.

“How have you been?” Jon asked in a low voice.

“I’m fine,” he replied, biting his lip.

Jon smiled. “You always bite your lip when you lie.”

Bran blushed and looked away from Jon’s piercing eyes. Robb had told him the same weeks ago. Bran thought about it. How _was_ he feeling?

“I can't feel my legs," he started out quietly. “I was supposed to go to King's Landing with father and the girls.” He took a shaky breath. “I hardly ever leave this chamber. I can't run and play and climb anymore.” He felt a pain in his chest as he said those words. “I'll never be a knight. I'm …” Tears began to well in his eyes. “… _crippled_ ,” he finished, choking out that last word.

Jon grabbed his hand and held it tight in his grasp. Looking straight into his eyes, he said, “Aye, you are crippled." Bran's heart plummeted and he could feel his throat tightening. “Physically. Not mentally. Aye, you’ll never run or climb again, but you’re not some wild animal in the forest whose whole life depends on that. You’re a man, your greatest strengths are not these,” he said, poking his arm muscles and lifting the covers to show Bran his twisted legs.

“It’s this.” He poked his forehead. “Your mind, your intelligence. You reckon Bran the Builder would still be remembered if he was some hulking warrior or a rosy knight. No, he’s remembered because he had the wits, the knowledge to build the Wall, Winterfell, even Storm’s End if you believe those tales.

“And I know you’ll be remembered like that too, Bran. Not as Bran the Broken but perhaps as Bran the Great. I know you’ll do great things because you’re a Stark, and you’ll never give up.

“And look,” Jon said, making him look up by putting a finger under his chin. “Don’t let this change you for the worse. You’re crippled but you’re not broken. You’re still Bran. You’re still my brother, and I love you.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks but he didn’t care as he threw his arms around his brother. His brother who was saying that he still loved him despite his injury. His brother who was saying that he wasn’t broken.

Robb had done the same, he thought absentmindedly. His older brother had told him that he was loved and that he wasn't broken, much like Jon had said right now. Yet, Jon had done more, he had said that there was more to life. And Bran could feel himself believing that for the first time.

Breaking the hug, Bran lay back down. Summer came closer and began to nip the hem again. He looked at Jon who was staring at the wall but not really staring at the wall. Fearfully, he asked. “When are you going to leave?”

Jon shook his head. “I’m not sure. Robb asked me to stay for a while, and I’m wondering whether to take it up.” Bran’s heart pounded, hoping beyond hope that Jon would take up the offer. “Robb told me that you saw things while asleep, Bran. Three-eyed crows and a lot of falling.”

Bran decided to turn his attention to petting Summer's fur. Soft and silvery, it flowed smoothly save for the occasional twig or bits of dried mud. “Bran,” Jon said, “you can tell me of the things that you saw.” When Bran remained quiet, he sighed. “I saw things too when I was in my coma.”

“They were just dreams,” he replied, hoping that Jon would drop it. He didn’t want to talk about them. They were full of lies, and they were just dreams anyways. Nothing to get upset over.

 _“What of me? Is this a dream speaking to you?”_ Bran jumped again, looking wildly in every direction.

“Bran?” It was Jon. He hadn’t heard it.

_“You saw no lies, no dreams, only truth. Only magic.”_

“You didn’t hear it?!” Bran asked Jon.

Confusion wrinkled his face and fear crept into his voice. “Hear what? Bran, what are you talking about? Is this about your dreams?”

“Someone spoke to me just now!” Bran’s eyes kept darting from object to object, as though he would find some answer.

“What did it say?” Jon’s voice was urgent but most importantly understanding.

“It said that my dreams were the truth! That they were magic!”

Jon closed his eyes and exhaled. “Bran, I need to know what you saw.” Seeing his brother's hesitation, he carried on. “I am not doubting your sanity, I just need to know what you saw. It’s important. It might help to explain what I saw in my dreams as well.”

He nodded, finding solace in the fact that his brother thought him sane and seemed to understand and accept this without question. “I … I was falling. At the beginning, I could see everything and everywhere but it was covered by grey mists. There was a voice, it told me to fly or die. The voice turned into a crow, a three-eyed crow.

“I saw Winterfell, and Robb and Maester Luwin and Hodor. I saw a volcano erupt and a terrible shadow rose from its plumes. I saw father and the girls. A man with a dog's face and a man, made out of pure gold.” Jon’s hand gripped his harder.

“I saw mother and Ser Rodrik on a ship. A little bit farther east, I saw a boy with a dragonstreak completing construction on a ship. I saw Essos and the Dothraki sea. I saw dragons stirring from where the sun rose. I saw you, Jon.” At the mention of his name, Jon jumped a bit. “You were at the Wall, in your chambers, you were holding some thin and dark. Like a sword.”

Jon's face paled and Bran continued in a flat voice. “I looked farther north and saw … dark _things_ and spiders made of ice, like in Old Nan’s tales. I saw a hill with weirwood trees on it, there was an entrance in a cleft on the hillside. There was an antlered man inside the hill, conversing with the trees.

“I looked west and saw another dragon but this one was different. It swam and its mouth was filled with poison rather than fire. And then I saw the ground was rushing in fast, the crow told me to fly or die, I raised my arms and flew,” Bran finished rather lamely.

Jon stood and paced around the room for a few seconds before standing before the window. Outside, snow was swirling across the castle. He stared out and Bran started to squirm from his brother’s lack of a response.

“Jon?” He called out.

He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. “That’s a lot to take in. It’s so different from what I saw.”

“What did you see?” Bran asked.

“I’ll tell you later. Maybe at dinner, aye?” Bran nodded. 

Jon moved towards the door and opened it. “Oh, and,” he stopped and turned to face him. “Your wolf’s name is Summer?”

Bran nodded. “I named him as soon as I woke up.”

"That's a good name," Jon said earnestly before walking out and leaving Bran to his thoughts again.

Thankfully, that _voice_ didn’t come back.

**Jon Snow**

The snow was falling quickly and without mercy.

The snow swirled and twirled in the air as Jon ambled his way down the road heading to Winter Town. It smelled like the cold and snow, which was to say that there wasn’t much of a smell at all.

The drifts of snow to the side of the road were getting higher. Only a thin sheet of snow layered the road as the castle guards and hired smallfolk routinely maintained it. As he walked, the snow crunched softly, leaving footprints behind. It reminded Jon of how in his vision, in the snow-bound landscape with a thick dome of fog, there hadn’t been any footprints in the snow. Brushing it aside, he continued walking.

It was late, just a bit past dinner. A guard had asked him if he’d be wanting a horse, but Jon insisted on walking. It would help with regaining his strength, he reasoned.

The snow thickened as he passed the halfway mark. The wind blew it into his face, making it hard to see but the faint, warm lights from the town did not lead him astray. The wind howled in his ear, louder than a boiling kettle. Yet, Jon didn't flinch as the cold night got colder. To northerners, this was only a summer snowstorm, albeit a heavy one.

He let his thoughts drift as he padded his way down the road.

Dinner had been … unusual for lack of a better word. To Jon’s recollection, the Starks had never discussed dreams in anything other than a glib and teasing manner. Yet, Bran had avidly listened to every detail of his own recounting and Robb had nothing to add but gloomy silence.

Robb had been somber the entire evening. Through the grim news of Uncle Benjen to Jon’s thoughts and speculations on what the dreams entailed. When he had asked Bran about their brother’s mood, he had said that they were speaking to Robb the Lord now.

It had been enough for Jon to crack a smile.

As dinner winded down, Jon stood, informing his brother that he would be visiting Winter Town.

“How the whores have missed you,” Theon quipped. Maester Luwin shot the ward a disapproving glare.

Jon ignored him. “I wanted to speak with Lord Tyrion. Make sure that he has not taken the slights from the day to heart.”

Robb nodded. "Have you an answer to my proposal? About you staying here for the time being," he said in a low voice so that no one else at the table heard them.

He hesitated before shaking his head. “I’ll have an answer by morning.”

His brother seemed appeased as he dismissed the entire table before standing and leaving the Great Hall.

Approaching the inn, he couldn't help but notice the warm glow it was giving off. The smoke rose swiftly from its chimneys and the light from the hearths and candles streamed out the windows. To Jon, it looked like the world's darkest but warmest candlelight.

Brushing off the snow clinging to his hair – his cloak was neglected of a hood – he pushed open the door and stepped in. The inn seemed to blaze with a heated atmosphere. Much of the men were drunk. Already on their dozenth cups of ale. And as most drunk men end up doing, the inn was rowdy with sailor songs and festive tunes.

Squinting into the hazy, smoke-filled air, Jon found the imp at one of the corner tables, treating his guests – of which there were plenty – with one of his courtly gossips. 

A loud gale of laughter erupted as he reached the table. “My lord of Lannister,” he called loudly. It worked as Tyrion’s mismatched eyes immediately found his grey ones. “A private word if you will.”

The imp's guests were eyeing him rather sourly. But Jon did not mind. They likely knew who he was: The Bastard of Winterfell. And Jon figured that they didn't care much for bastards. And undoubtedly, they cared even less for a bastard interrupting a good time.

One of the men – he was bald with a shaggy beard – was starting to raise a finger and speak contemptuously before Tyrion cut him off. “It’s fine, Dorren. I’m sure Jon Snow here will not take too long. But to make sure your time goes faster, another round of ale on me!” The men cheered before moving away.

“I see your meeting with my brother did not sour your liking for northerners,” he said sitting down.

“Your people are loud, like a good bawdy jape, and can carry their ale very well. What is there not to like?” Jon smiled.

“I came to apologize for the wolves attacking you earlier this day.”

“Yes well, another thanks from me to Ghost and yourself for intervening. Perhaps a cup of good ale will be a proper show of gratitude,” he said, signaling one of the barmaids.

Jon stopped him. “I thank you, but no. I still have some things I need to do after I depart.”

Tyrion shrugged, downing another slosh of his ale. “I should have said this earlier but I've decided to travel with you till White Harbor. We'll go our separate ways in the city. You to Essos, me to King's Landing," he said grinning.

“Why?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“Well, for starters I’ve never been to White Harbor while I have already been past Moat Cailin. As much as I am fascinated by ruins, they don’t seem be to stocked with good whores quite unlike White Harbor. And I don’t mind your company, Jon. You’re a good drinking partner and a better listener. Of course, I’ll just have to find a way to convince Yoren.” That last bit was said in a grumble but Jon wasn’t paying attention.

His mind was flashing of images of open seas, great ports, and long spiraling towers laid in shadows. He could see that all, he knew. All he had to do was reject Robb’s proposal. It would hurt Robb, of course, but father had never intended for him to stay at Winterfell for long either. _I’m not a Stark,_ that old phrase kept repeating in his head.

But a nagging feeling wouldn’t leave. It nagged him relentlessly, reminding him of Winterfell in ruins, or his family’s deaths, and Arya’s piercing screams. It reminded him of the Wall falling, a city burning. It reminded him of Bran’s small voice when he had asked whether or not Jon was staying, Robb’s cautious hope in his eyes as he propositioned him. How could he just leave behind his family for adventure? How could he leave his family to their fates so he could go and play at being Aurane Waters?

Was his pride that important to him? His _honor?_

_"The honorable path is not always the best one, Jon Snow."_

Jon took a deep breath and sighed. “I’m afraid there is no point in changing your course of travel, Tyrion. I won't be traveling to Essos for a while, Robb asked me to stay and so I am."

Tyrion just looked at him as though he was trying to understand. “You’re going to stay?”

“For the while, yes.”

“And how long is that while? A week? A fortnight? A moon’s turn?”

Jon squinted his eyes. “Are you implying that Robb will turn me away in an instance?”

He shrugged. “I’ve seen families do worse. And I know of your fondness for your half-siblings but it seems to me as though someone is forgetting who they are.”

The boy smiled bitterly. “I know who I am. A bastard.” Jon leaned in toward the imp. “But that doesn’t mean my family treats me the way yours treats you.”

“And if I’m right?”

Jon bit his tongue to stop an angry, and frankly childish, retort from escaping through his lips. He took a moment, gathering his thoughts, glaring at Tyrion straight in the eye while doing so. “Well, then I’ll probably end up like most bastards. Either relentlessly pursuing my family’s love and acceptance or end up bitterly hating them for everything they stand for,” he said, knowing that it hit close to home for the Lannister.

Tyrion scowled but did not look away. “I think you are the most interesting Northerner I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re definitely the biggest Lannister I’ve ever seen,” he retorted. It was true considering that he had never seen the Queen or the Kingslayer, and he knew that Tyrion knew that.

Tyrion guffawed. Jon stood and rounded his way across the table. “Farewell, my lord of Lannister.” He ripped off the glove on his hand, offered his bare hand. “Friend.”

Tyrion stared at his hand for a moment, almost disbelievingly. “Most of my kin are bastards,” he said with a wry smile. “But you’re the first I’ve had to friend.” Tyrion clasped his bare hand to Jon’s, flesh against flesh.

With that, Jon left the warm comfort of the inn to return to the cold clearness of the outside.

* * *

The godswood was etched in timelessness.

From the ironwoods to the sentinels, from the packed earth to the moss, from the dense canopy overhead to the fragile, untouched snow, it felt timeless. It all looked, smelled, and _felt_ like something that had existed for thousands of years and something that would still exist thousands of years later. 

Everything here was slower, quieter, more natural. Everything here flowed sleepily, from the little streams carrying their water to the snowflakes drifting in from the cloudy sky. Everything here lulled into a peace of mind that was damn near impossible to achieve anywhere else.

As Jon followed the winding, natural path that led past the many multitudes of trees to the heart tree, he felt a strange comfort rather than unease.

In his gloved hands, he carried the metal chest that hid Dark Sister from the world. He had stowed it away carefully in his baggage when he had left the Wall, and he had now received it from his chambers.

It was late, very late. The castle slept. It had been only a few hours since his farewell to Tyrion.

He reached the clearing where the old weirwood loomed in the center; ancient and watchful. Jon exhaled out of his mouth and his breath appeared in the dark. He was sure on why he was here. He had planned it since leaving the Wall. It was something that Jon had seen his father do after each use of Ice.

The snow hadn’t piled up in the godswood as Jon knew it wouldn’t. Perhaps it was the strange magic of the weirwood as Jon had never seen the godswood blocked in by snow. No matter how heavy the snowstorms had gotten. Even now, despite the heavy snowstorm, the godswood barely felt as though it had been snowed on.

He stood in front of the heart tree, looking deeply into its eyes. It watched back, eyes staring knowingly. In the darkness of the night, the redness of the leaves and eyes were lacking. Jon turned away and sat on the rock as his father had a thousand times before. With his back to the face of the heart tree, Jon unclasped the chest and retrieved the slender sword.

It was still pristine; despite the years it had spent locked away. Time had not dulled its edge nor its polish. He grabbed the hilt and lifted it out, raising it overhead in admiration. Golden flames formed the crossguard, and in the center of it all, where the hilt, crossguard, and blade all met, stood a large, red ruby. Perfectly cut, it glowed even in the darkness.

_"I’m giving Dark Sister to you, Brynden,” his kingly brother said, holding the sheathed sword with two hands extended._

_He couldn’t believe it. If Dark Sister was to be his, both of House Targaryen’s ancestral swords would be in the hands of bastard-born children._

_“You forget, Your Grace. Daemon wields Blackfyre, and I don’t see him passing it on to your children anytime soon. Dark Sister should go to Baelor or Maekar.”_

_Daeron smiled gently. “Baelor is quite attached to that spear of his, and Dark Sister does not suit Maekar, he’s a bit too bulky for a slender sword, no?”_

_Brynden scoffed. “It’s still a symbol. With all the whispers and rumors flying here and there, it’s important that the people see that Visenya Targaryen’s sword is in the hands of the true heir, not some albino bastard.”_

_“You’re right, it is a symbol. A symbol that Brynden Rivers is loyal to the Targaryens." He rolled his eyes, getting ready to argue before his king interrupted him. "War is coming soon, Brynden. You know that. I know that. And one symbol is not going to change anything.” Brynden fell silent knowing Daeron spoke the truth. “I can only hope that Daemon finds it in himself to refuse Aegor’s insistence. I pray to the Seven that he has the wisdom not to send brother against brother and uncle against nephew.”_

_His eyes flitted to the sword. He couldn't deny that he had dreamed of wielding it in the past when he had been a young boy still clinging to his mother's skirts. To have that dream come true …_

_“Shall I accept it now or will there be some ceremony later?” Brynden asked mockingly. He knew that a hint of eagerness slipped through his mask of reluctance._

_Daeron placed the sword into his hands. "You'll accept it later. The whole realm will know that the sword lies within the hands of Brynden Rivers and not some albino bastard."_

_Brynden snorted at the last bit. It reminded him of how well his king knew him._

The godswood was dark. The canopy denied what small light the night sky provided from entering. Still, his eyes had adjusted well enough so that he could make out the basic shapes of trees. If Ghost had been awake instead of resting within his chambers, Jon would have been able to see a whole lot better through his wolf's eyes.

Jon huffed as he pulled a rag from his belt. He leaned forward, careful to aim the sharp edges of the sword away from himself, and dipped the rag into the black pond. Making sure to avoid getting his gloves wet with what was surely freezing water, Jon sat back upright, rag nice and damp.

With it, Jon slowly polished Dark Sister as he had seen his father do a thousand times before. Now, doing it himself, Jon could understand why his father carried this habit. It was relaxing and cleansing in many ways. _Like whetting a blade,_ he thought. Except, of course, Valyrian steel never needed to be whetted.

A long time passed from when he started until when he finished. By the time he finished, the cold was finally starting to get to him. He found that strange, of course. It had felt as though the godswood had been shielding him from the cold as best it could, and now the shield was finally being exhausted. The only shield he had left was his cloak and clothes.

A crow squawked from some tree close to him. Jon paused from locking the chest to look up to the sky. Through little holes in the canopy, he saw that it was still wholly night and that dawn was still hours away.

Locking the box, Jon sat back down on the rock and just stared forward, contemplating. It was very late – or rather, early – and Jon was tired. They had ridden from dawn till past noon to get to Winterfell, and much had happened after arriving. He considered just going back to his chambers to rest but he could feel the eyes of the weirwood on his back.

Though Jon didn't turn, he felt as though the stare was one of reprimand. It seemed to say, _“Don’t muck up and send those birds flying again.”_ Jon felt that reproach. He could see his – Brynden’s – teacher warning him that skinchanging spooked animals, and that they had to be quick or else the animal would flee and that it fleeing would cause more animals in the vicinity to flee.

He had been struggling with being quick with his third eye the entire journey back to Winterfell. Jon wasn’t sure if these conditions, being cold and exhausted, would end up helping him. But the weight of the weirwood face’s stare increased, and the crow from before squawked again, as though daring him.

Jon closed his two normal eyes and opened his third one. With his third one, he could see the link between him and Ghost but he set his sights elsewhere. The effort left him slightly dizzy and for reasons he could not explain, he smelled some strange scents. He even started to hear more, like the twinkles that the water on a stream made or the hooting of an owl that was quite a distance away.

When he opened his eyes, he saw not the darkness of the godswood but himself, sitting rather limp on the rock. When he tried to speak it came out as a scream and when he tried to move his arms, he only fluttered about awkwardly.

Yet, that didn’t deter the smile on his human face as he realized that he had skinchanged into something other than Ghost for the first time.


	6. Following Old Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benjen continues his journey, Waymar meets someone, Tyrion reaches an inn, Aurane has a field day

**Benjen Stark**

_His nose was stuck to the book._

_It was a fascinating read. It was about the southernmost continent, Sothoryos, and it covered many tales of the land. From failed endeavors of the Valyrians and Essosi to establish a proper foothold to how a dragon rider had once flown across the continent for a year without finding an end._

_Benjen flipped a page, eagerly letting his eyes glide across the parchment in hopes of learning more about the strange creatures that inhabited the land. Aside from the well-documented Brindled Men, the book explored rumors of other races, such as eyeless cave-dwellers and lizardmen._

_As Benjen read more and more, he dreamed more frequently of journeying to lands far and away. He dreamed of finding those other races, of discovering other cities, or an end to the whole continent. Of course, it would be dangerous, and he would most likely end up painfully dying, but who cared? He was the third son regardless, and the thrill of adventure called to him._

_Suddenly, a knock rapped on his door before opening, and Benjen jumped up, his heart feeling as though it had been drenched in cold water. Turning, he half expected to see a Brindled Man, but instead, it was just his lord father, Lord Rickard._

_"Father,” he greeted, standing up and closing the book he was reading._

_"Ben,” his father said, stern eyes looking him hard in the eyes. “We shall be departing soon for Brandon’s wedding. You’re to be the Stark in Winterfell,” his father’s deep voice explained._

_"Yes, my lord. I shan’t let you or everyone else down.”_

_His lord father nodded in that proud way of his. “I know you won’t, Ben. Listen to your instincts and heed Maester Walys’ advice. Now there was a letter from Lyanna that you mentioned. Is she well? How has she found Riverrun?”_

_“She is,” Benjen smoothly lied. "She wrote to me saying that Lady Catelyn and her have become fast friends." Another lie. "But, if truth be told, there was nothing of importance, my lord. Just some choice gossip, details about the castle. No doubt things she'll speak to you of once you arrive at Riverrun." As his hands shook violently behind his back and his heart raced faster than a mad horse, he wondered how he had lied so well just then._

_“Very well,” said his lord father. Turning, his father stepped out the door and closed it._

_Just like that, he remembered. He remembered what would happen if Lyanna wasn’t stopped. He remembered his father’s fate if he went south beyond Moat Cailin. “Wait!” shouted Benjen as he lurched toward the door and wrenched it open. Time seemed to slow down, and each time Benjen took a step, he felt as though he was walking through quicksand. “Father! Wait!” he shouted as he ran down Winterfell’s familiar corridors. “You’ll die! You’ll die if you go south!”_

_Benjen had to warn him. He had to warn them all before they rode off to the south._

_Before they rode off to their deaths._

The Titan’s roar woke him up.

He immediately jolted upright and had a hand on the hilt of his dagger before he realized what had happened. Swearing, he dropped his hand and moved to put on a shirt. The scar on his torso didn’t sting, as it should not have considering it was past noon, and warm.

His cabin was dim; the only light coming from the cracks of the door. Kneading his face, he thought about his dream. It was about his lord father and Lyanna and Brandon. All his dreams recently had been about them. Every dream he’d had since leaving the Watch had them haunting him. His guilt kept on bringing them back, each time it was more vivid than the last. And each time he was left to only watch what happened, and agonize over what could have been.

_Why didn’t I just tell the truth?_

Stumbling over to the basin, he washed himself clean of sweat. But that didn't stop the shaking in his hands or the pain in his heart. He washed his face more thoroughly before straightening and breathing hard. Brushing his hair with his hand, he sat back down onto his cot and let his racing heart calm. 

He wondered why he was having these dreams after over a decade of not having them. At the Wall, Benjen had always had his duties to preoccupy his mind and keep him from facing his guilt. But here on the ship, in the middle of the sea, the only thing that could occupy his mind was playing and gambling at cards with the other sailors and even that only occurred at night once they were free from their duties. Briefly, his hand drifted to the scar that the Other had given him, wondering whether it was the cause, but he dismissed it outright. The greenseer hadn’t told him anything of old regrets and night terrors being caused by the Other’s mark. _But then again, how would the greenseer know. He hasn’t been cut like that._

The door to his cabin opened, letting in light along with a small, slim boy with fair hair. Benjen and the boy, whose name was Terro and who hailed from Braavos, had been sharing the cabin since departing from White Harbor. The boy's knowledge over the Common Tongue was limited, but his enthusiasm was not. He was the captain's nephew, he oft-repeated as though Benjen forgot this every hour. He declared himself an artist but not one of the brushes or the quill but one of the sword. Hazily, Benjen recalled that the proper term for him would be bravo. 

“We pass Titan shortly,” he said in his rough accent.

Benjen nodded and sent him on his way after the boy had given a broken monologue on the Titan of Braavos. Rolling his shoulders, he set on preparing his appearance. On his long face, his beard had been trimmed the day before, and so had his hair. The only real problem was choosing his set of garbs. At the Wall, a man only ever wore black, and so Benjen had never really had to worry too much over his choice of garbs, regularly just choosing the cleanest one. For formal occasions, he had his one choice of rich velvet and high leather boots, with a silver buckle and chain to go with it.

Even in his youth at Winterfell did he rarely have a great variety of colors to choose from. Though he still had a variety of garbs, they were mostly similar and familiarly dyed, so he never wasted too much time picking an outfit.

Now, however. He sighed as he looked down into the case, eyes becoming half-glazed at the rainbow of colors. Despite his dilemma, Benjen chuckled. Doubtless, it was Howland who had decided on what types of garbs to pack for him, and there was no doubt that his friend relished in knowing that Benjen was no longer tied to the Watch in ways that meant wearing black.

The crannogman had always disliked the idea of him joining the Watch, even if Ned had come to accept it. Benjen recalled that the little man had offered him a chance of living in the marshlands of the Neck after the rebellion, but he had declined. He'd had too much blood on his hands to seamlessly fall back into the norms of society. The Wall was where he'd decided to atone for his guilt. 

Sighing, he rooted through the case, searching for the darkest colors. To his memory, Braavos was the opposite of Westeros in terms of colored garbs. Whereas in Westeros, the wealthy and nobility dressed in colorful shades and the smallfolk and lowborn dressed mostly in muted colors, it was the complete opposite in Braavos. The wealthy and nobility dressed in somber tones while the poor bedecked themselves in half a hundred different colors.

And Benjen knew that to treat with the Iron Bank, it would be better to dress in muted colors.

In the end, Benjen ended up picking an outfit that was mostly dark blue. _Old habits die hard,_ he thought mirthlessly as in the dim light it felt as though he was in his Night’s Watch garbs. The only exception to his dark blue garbs was his cloak. It was a rich, caramel color that came from an animal that he did not know. Though it was soft, comfortable, and exotic even for great lords, the reason that Benjen had picked it was because it had been given to him by the children of the forest.

And, Benjen didn't know why but wearing it felt like he was honoring them.

Gathering his satchel – which was also given to him by the children – and his case, he headed out on the deck where everyone save for himself was busy. The captain was busy shouting instructions. Sailors were milling about, reefing the purple sails, tying and untying knots, and whatever it was they did when they prepared to dock. Below, the oarsmen pulled and pushed over two great banks of oars. The deck swayed and tilted, but Benjen didn't mind as he watched with careful eyes the work of the sailors on the galleas _Storm’s Tears._

Benjen climbed up to the helm to speak with the captain as the ship glided toward the Titan of Braavos. From their distance, Benjen could see much of it in detail. Its eyes were fiery, burning hot and bright like stars. It served as a beacon for ships, to lead them at night and make sure they didn’t smash into oblivion against the mountainside that curtained the city.

It rested on steeply sloped mountains that were covered by dark spruces. One foot rested on each side as through the gap of its legs also stood the gap of the mountains. The legs were solid stone, but the rest was not. Around its hips, it wore an armor skirt of greenish bronze. The breastplate was also bronze, but its hair was hempen ropes dyed as green as its skirt. One hand rose to the sky, holding the hilt of a broken sword while the other hand grasped some knob on the mountain.

Sailing closer and closer, Benjen briefly noted that it was tall enough to easily step over Winterfell’s walls. Though it was still too short to come up to even half the Wall’s height, he decided firmly.

“Beautiful, no?” The captain barked out in his gruff, accented Common.

“Yes. One of Lomas Longstrider’s man-made wonders if I am recalling properly,” he replied.

“Do you know that in times of danger the Titan comes to life and wades into the sea to crush Braavos’ enemies?” The captain’s eyes had a twinkle in it that told Benjen not to take him seriously.

The captain, whose name was Ferro, was a large man eroded by time. His hair was gray and was now whitening. The wrinkles on his face cut deep, and his spirit seemed dimmed whenever the talk was anything other than Braavos, the sea, and trade talk. Ah, but how his spirit flourished when the tide of conversation favored him. His eyes seemed to gleam with vigor, and his passion would be enough to trick any blind man into thinking that this man before them was barely over twenty name days.

Seeing that gleam in his eyes made Benjen smile, and hearing his words made him laugh. "Funny, my Old Nan used to tell my sister and me those same tales, and she always insisted that the Braavosi fed the Titan on the flesh of young, highborn girls.”

“Your old nan is a wise woman. All she says is true, I'm thinking if she knew of our Titan's terrible taste," he said in mock seriousness.

“All she says is true,” Benjen repeated hollowly. His thoughts flashed to the white walker that had gutted his men and scarred him for life. “They were cold things, dead things,” he could hear her saying. “They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score, riding pale dead horses and letting loose their packs of pale white spiders big as hounds,” she had said while knitting in front of the fire. “Oh, my sweet summer children,” she would say with pity in her voice. “What do you know of fear?” She always used to ask that from Benjen and his siblings.

 _Nothing, we knew nothing,_ he thought, shivering when he remembered the pale creature.

Benjen passed through the Titan silently. He gave only the most cursory glances at the arrow slits and murder holes that littered the giant’s skirt and breastplate.

When they entered the lagoon, Ferro deemed to speak again. "Ah, the Arsenal," he spoke loud and proud. "They can build a war galley in one day." Benjen watched the small island covered by trebuchets, spitfires, and scorpions. Fortified with stone battlements, its shores were bedecked with quays, wharves, and wooden ships holding galleys. Those galleys made up the defense fleet of Braavos, Ferro explained.

“There. We will dock there at Chequy Port. Customs will take half a day as they usually do but your presence is not required. One of my sailors will row you to the Iron Bank if you desire.”

"I thank you for your service," he said, bowing his head.

The captain only nodded. “Will you remain here long? Or should I expect you as a passenger again?” Ferro gestured to the stairs leading down.

“Unless you plan on sailing to Volantis next,” he answered as they descended onto the busy deck.

“I am not so sure. The sea is wide and open, and free, and I will sail to wherever the sea calls,” he declared.

Benjen nodded. “Then I may see you again one day.”

Benjen had packed lightly at his own insistence. His only belongings being the satchel, his sword and dagger, and the case which contained his clothes and coin. The coin that had been given to him by the children.

Curious, he had asked them as they traveled through those tunnels where they had obtained the hundreds of gold coins that filled his leather pouch. Their answer had been simple enough. "Men drop coin and men bury coin. Regardless, it ends up in the earth, and when we have need of it, the coin is never too far." Idly, Benjen had muttered that pirates should stop burying their treasures.

He waved his farewell to Ferro and Terro, uncle and nephew, as the boat was being lowered. From there on, he spent a good portion of an hour sitting and observing the Free City of Braavos as the sailor rowed down the city and away from the _Storm’s Tears._

With every stroke of Guyen’s oars, the city of Braavos changed and shifted. Far away to his right and left, Benjen saw harbors with their piers and quays bursting with ships. He saw the swan ships of the Summer Isle, big-bellied whalers from Ibben, merchant cogs, and more galleys than he could reasonably count. Past the harbor to his left, there was a whole town of half-submerged buildings and towers.

As the boat sailed more and more into the city proper, Benjen could see that Braavos was truly a city of a hundred islands as he had read in his books. What truly astonished him and made his eyes grow big was the size of the buildings. Boasting of scores of temples and palaces and towers that seemed as large as Winterfell itself, Braavos truly dwarfed White Harbor in size. Guyen chuckled at his wide eyes and asked him what it was that surprised him.

“The size of your buildings makes me feel though as a mouse, I only felt that way once when I was in Harrenhal,” he said eyeing a particular temple made of a rainbow of colors.

Guyen swung them down another canal, and the boat knifed through the green waters. Benjen watched the islands that were connected and linked by arched bridges that passed overhead an innumerable number of canals. From his seat, he could see the houses that were queer to his eyes. They were made from grey stone, four or five stories tall with sharply peaked tile roofs that reminded him of pointy, wizard hats from children’s books. Timber and thatch seemed to be far from Braavosi architects’ minds.

Benjen sat silent but observant as Guyen effortlessly rowed them down canal after canal and bridge after bridge with seemingly no trouble finding his way. Many of the bridges were ornamented with a singular theme, he saw. One bridge was painted with a thousand eyes while another had half a hundred different kinds of fish and other aquatic creatures carved upon the stone.

They passed a canal with many, mighty statues that he came to know of as previous Sealords. In the distance, a massive aqueduct supported by three tiers of arches loomed over houses and canals and bridges alike. Before Guyen could even explain, he had guessed it as the sweetwater river that brought clean, drinkable water up from the south.

While the various structures of Braavos filled his appetite for marvelous wonders of the world, he found just as much as interest in the people themselves. The Braavosi were overall a kind people, he had read, with a great love for music and the arts. And Benjen could see that all as true. The poor enameled themselves in flamboyant colors and called out to each other in friendly tones while there sat musicians in the streets with a good crowd for whom to play for. As he watched slender boats drifting out from beneath tunneled canals and huge, flat-bottomed barges being poled from here to there, he realized that the lagoon and harbor were no longer in sight. They were in the city proper now. 

“Are we close?” He asked Guyen.

The sailor smiled; his teeth were rotten and as yellow as his hair. "You can see it from here. Just a bridge to go and then to the left."

Benjen frowned and glanced, wanting to see this unassuming building where the Iron Bank resided. It was only after he saw it that he understood his mistake as well as Guyen's smile. The Iron Bank was not unassuming at all. It was a grand, monumental temple-like building with pillars, steps, statues, and slabs all being shaped from marble. Benjen saw his mistake now. Against the milky white clouds that blotted out the blue sky, the Iron Bank would be easy for the eyes to glance over at first.

Guyen stopped the boat just before a plain, marble bridge with an arched underside. On the left was a small quay also made of marble with a stairwell that led up to the front of the bank. Carefully, Benjen stood and got off with his belongings. Turning, he tossed the sailor a gold coin from his pocket. “You have my thanks,” he said before ascending the steps. Guyen gave a two-finger salute before rowing away.

A large crowd was milling around in the large, square-like front of the Iron Bank. There were soldiers dressed in purple cloaks and well-oiled armor and weapons, keyholders dressed in grave colored garbs, and let their key hang from their necks, several bravos were strutting around while to the sides stood vendors and merchants. As Benjen climbed the steps, he noted that unlike many markets, portside inns, or town fairs, there was a semblance of dignity and respect that had any and every man there hold themselves a bit straighter. Such was the effect of the Iron Bank, he thought as it loomed over them all in its full splendor.

The Iron Bank was a colossal building that felt very much like Winterfell in the feel that it was a massive complex that had begun simple enough before expanding and enlarging as the years past. Benjen could see that the first level was a long and tall structure that could be described as simple without the pillars or statues. The entrance had four, grand pillars guarding it, and on each side of the pillars were stretched out three statues. Three women on the left, three men on the right; they all held a key denoting their status as the original keyholders.

Even the doors were grand; tall and intricately designed, it looked as though a painting of the bank’s history. Benjen passed through them after being subjected to a check by several guards. They looked through his case, satchel, and pouch of gold. One of them moved over to some large ledger before asking something in the Braavosi tongue.

"Pardons, but I do not speak your tongue," Benjen explained in Common.

“Name?” the same guard asked with barely a hint of an accent.

Benjen hesitated slightly. The greenseer had spun him a story to tell the Iron Bank. “Better for them to not know who you are, Benjen Stark. They will most likely know the name of the First Ranger, and they will for a certainty know the name Stark,” he’d said from his throne of tree roots. “Take the name Harold Untrit of Sea Dragon Point. I once knew of a man of that name. His name died with him, and so they shall not know of it."

“I am Harold Untrir of Sea Dragon Point,” he said to the guard.

The guard wrote it down. “You may pass. Welcome to the Iron Bank of Braavos.”

Benjen inclined his head and went in. The reception hall was long and elegant. The stalls from where the receptionists sat were richly varnished wood with hints of gold. The walls and ceiling were made of smooth stone and marble, giving the bank a dignified and clean feel. There was a large sign reading “Common” above a row of stalls. He made his way over to a free one.

The woman who sat there softly smiled when she saw Benjen. “Welcome to the Iron Bank of Braavos. How may we help you?”

“I am Harold Untrit from Sea Dragon Point. I came to oversee a vault that is not in my name.”

“Do you possess the proper credentials?”

"I believe so." He opened his satchel and passed a few documents onto the woman. The papers were old, brittle, and yellow, but the ink on them had lasted, and that was all that mattered.

The woman frowned as she read through it. “This vault-”

“To my knowledge has not been accessed in over a century. I wish to speak to one of your bankers. Get the proper accounts instead of relying on sums and guesses.”

“I must inform my superiors of this. Please take a seat,” she said, indicating some benches. “This may take a while.” She didn’t bother waiting for his answer and disappeared into the door behind her seat.

Benjen took a seat as she had advised. The hall wasn't overcrowded, but it was not empty either. There was a fair amount of people to converse with, to learn more about the city, the bank, the people. But Benjen didn't have the same thirst for knowledge that his younger self had possessed. His thirst had been quenched by the blood spilled in the rebellion and his long years spent at and beyond the Wall. Waiting for the woman to return, his eyelids grew heavier until he closed them reluctantly.

_“Why me? Why send me half a world away? I am a Stark, gods dammit! I can warn my brother. We could get the king to send help to fortify the Wall. We need to inform the Night's Watch!" Benjen said to the corpse-like man sitting in his roots. They were sitting in the cavern inside the hill; Benjen had his back to the abyss where six hundred feet below, a swift river roared._

_His voice was thin as paper when he spoke, and drier than the sands of Dorne. “Do not worry yourself with the why’s and how’s. A plan is already being set into motion, and you are simply a piece of that plan. Do not worry of Westeros or the Night’s Watch or your brother. They will know when the time is right.”_

_“And when is the time right?” he asked hotly._

_“The time will be right, so long as you do with what you are tasked,” he said, evading the question. “Now, onto the Iron Bank and those documents you hold in your hands. The-”_

“Lord Harold.” A firm hand shook him by the shoulder. He jolted awake, finding to his surprise half a dozen spearmen and a man with a bravo’s sword leading them. “I am Qarro Volentin, the First Sword of Braavos. And under the command of my Sealord, Ferrego Antaryon, you are under arrest.”

Benjen resisted the urge to break out laughing by biting his lips. As the spearmen clasped shackles onto his wrist and the wealthy merchants of Braavos watched with curious eyes, he wondered if this was part of the greenseer’s plan.

**Waymar Royce**

Chett wasn’t happy to see him, but then again, Chett wasn’t happy seeing anyone.

“Ser Waymer,” he said shortly. “What is your business?”

“I came to return some maps Maester Aemon lent me.”

Chett seemed a bit apprehensive. “The maester wishes to speak with you, ser.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, ser. Only, he wishes to speak with you.”

“Of course.” He graced Chett’s ugly face boils with a smile.

“Give the maps to Clydas. Maester Aemon is in the infirmary.” Chett let him through the open door. He found Clydas a few moments later tending to a small room with jars and pots and stoppered vials that filled it from floor to ceiling and passed the maps onto him. They were few and of little help in establishing a clearer map of beyond the wall, but he'd been obliged to take them and compare them to the maps he had dug out from the castle library. 

_The map is not the land._ His father had once taught him that early on when Waymar had first begun to read maps and stars. It was meant to be a cautionary warning, he knew, that as detailed as a map could be, it wasn’t the real land. When the Old Bear had commanded him to search for maps, he’d relayed the saying and the Lord Commander had chuckled. “Your lord father had the right of it,” he had admitted. “But that doesn’t make those maps any less valuable. Sharp as our rangers are, they are men, and men tend to forget what maps silently remember.” So Waymar had been wandering about the castle for weeks, looking for maps in old storage rooms and libraries.

The maps Maester Aemon had lent him had been broad ones. Some covered the lands beyond the wall along with the North, and some others covered the entire Seven Kingdoms. Dutifully, Waymar had compared and contrasted them, making notes where prudent and reinking faded lines where needed. His patience had been tested thoroughly through it all.

“Maester?” he called out into the infirmary. It wasn’t a large room, but it was snug with cots and beds pushed to the sides, the hearth dominated the opposite wall.

“I am here.” The maester was sitting next to the bed nearest the hearth. A large figure was lying beneath woolen blankets.

“I’ve returned the maps you graciously lent me. Clydas should be placing them back as we speak,” said Waymar, moving closer to the maester’s side. “Chett told me of your wish to speak with me.”

"Our brother told you true." The maester turned his head towards the occupied bed. Waymar turned his attention as well and winced audibly once he saw the body.

“Gods be good,” he muttered, looking away quickly.

The old maester nodded, slowly and in agreement. “That is Samwell Tarly. He arrived the night before today.”

“Tarly,” he mused. “My lord father used to speak of a Randyll Tarly; the finest soldier the Reach could boast of. Perchance, this Samwell is his son?”

“He is. Now, if you could describe him for me.” Maester Aemon said.

“Describe him?” he asked, perplexed. From what Waymar could see, all his injuries had been tended to. Cuts wrapped in cloth, salves, and oils smeared and spread against bruises and inflamed areas. Maester Aemon had already seen to the lordling.

The maester turned to him, somehow his milky eyes found Waymar’s grey ones. “Describe his injuries,” he clarified.

Waymar frowned, wondering if this was a waste of time. Looking down at the bed, he inspected closer. Samwell Tarly was immensely fat, he realized after a short moment. In the dim light and under the blankets, he’d mistaken him for being a large, _muscular_ man, rather than a large, fat man. As he looked longer, he surmised that Tarly was the fattest man he’d ever seen. _No, not a man. A boy._ Even with all the bruises, Waymar saw him as being several years younger than himself.

"Cloth around his head, he cracked his head?" he looked to the maester who revealed nothing. "Nose broken. Face swollen and bruised badly. I can't account for his teeth." The knight looked down at his arms. "More bruises on his arms, cuts as well I'd wager. Nothing was broken from what I can glimpse.”

“Three fingers on his left hand are broken. The wrist on the left is also sprained. There are more bruises throughout his body. His jaw is also swollen, but fortunately not broken. Thankfully, the beating he received did not leave him with internal bleeding,” Maester Aemon said.

“Who’s responsible for this,” he demanded. A small wave of heat rose through him at the thought of the boy being beaten bloody.

“He is a recruit. So, naturally, he would be training with the other recruits in the morning.”

“The recruits did this. Them or Thorne.” In his indignance, he didn’t bother giving the other knight his title of ser. It didn’t surprise him that Ser Alliser would order such a beating. He was cruel and bitter and spiteful, and the rapists and thieves and poachers that the Night’s Watch called recruits were no better.

“Is this why you asked for my presence, maester? Do you wish for me to speak with Thorne? Or perhaps the recruits?” _Perhaps I could get a blunted sword and beat them into a bloody pulp as they did with the Tarly boy._

The maester stood silent for a moment. “When they brought him in earlier today, he was unconscious. I immediately set to heal this young man, and during my ministrations he was muttering for his mother and sisters, pleading for them to stop the pain. When he woke, he began to weep and complain of the pain, so I gave him some milk of the poppy. Enough to dull his pain and loosen his tongue, but not enough to put him to sleep.

“I was curious as to this boy. The recruits who had brought him in said that he hadn’t fought back, and rather had lain on the ground and gave in. I wondered, why was he here? Why hadn’t he fought back? And I found my answer when he began to speak.

“Through the poppy, he told me of his lord father’s hopes and disappointment, and eventually shame and anger in Samwell. He told me that he loved music and books, soft fabrics, and sweets. He told me of his lady mother and younger brother and sweet sisters, of which he was closest to Talla.”

“I don’t understand,” Waymar said. “Why are you telling me this?”

Maester Aemon didn’t answer. “I asked him why he didn’t stand and fight. When I was young myself, my sword may have been slow, but I never refused to fight back, to protect myself. Through his tears, he confessed to being a craven. And because of that, his father refused to let him inherit Horn Hill, telling him that if Sam wasn’t to join the Watch, he would meet an unfortunate accident deep in the woods.”

Waymar stood in silence, trying to understand what the maester had just told him. A self-confessed craven, fat lordling who had once been the heir to Horn Hill. Waymar wasn't surprised by the boy being fat – many lordlings and lords were – and he wasn't too surprised by Samwell being a craven. Many men were cowards in one way or another. They simply never admitted such to anyone, not even themselves at times. What did surprise him was the confession and Lord Tarly's ruthlessness.

“Lord Randyll Tarly threatened to have his son killed? If he’s the type of man I’m thinking he is, then I pity his family.”

The maester shrugged. “Lord Tarly is from an old and proud house. For him, I imagine leaving the future of his house in Samwell’s hands frightened, shamed, or angered him.”

“You speak as if you know this Lord Tarly,” Waymar said.

The maester chuckled. “I have lived long enough to have known the Lord Tarly before this one. Lord Randyll does not sound much different from his _own_ father.”

Waymar looked down at the boy and grimaced as the light from the fire flicked from one bruise to another. 

“I still do not understand why you are speaking to me of this boy,” Waymar said.

The maester sighed. "I've taken an interest in young Samwell. He may be a craven, but I heard some wit when we spoke. He's read every book in Horn Hill's library. He even told me that he once aspired to travel to Oldtown and study at the Citadel, but his father refused to grant his son leave.

“I am an old man, Ser Waymar,” he said. “I have seen a hundred name days come and go, so many summers and so many winters have passed before me. So many men have met death before me, but I feel that my time is coming as well. The Wall has helped to preserve me, the cold has allowed me to live this long.” He sounded so regretful. “But I know that this will be the last summer I ever feel. I know deep in my bones that I will not live to see the spring,” he said calmly.

Waymar didn’t say anything – he couldn’t say anything. What could he have said to a man as old as Maester Aemon? Somberly, Waymar wondered if the maester wished to meet his end soon.

"Someone must succeed me soon. They would need to tend the ravens and tend to our brothers' injuries. The library and all the books and scrolls in there must be looked after. Chett and Clydas are not fit for this work, but my hope is that Samwell is. And now I come to my request to you,” he said.

Waymar perked up, curious. “I shall speak to the Lord Commander about Samwell’s appointment, but until he takes his vows he will still be required to train under Ser Alliser. My request is that you watch over Samwell. Protect him from being beaten again, perhaps you can even help train him with bow or sword or axe,” the maester finished.

Waymar stared in disbelief and almost scoffed. Protecting an admitted craven from a bunch of criminals who were no doubt itching to beat him unconscious again? Was the old maester japing? “Surely you can simply speak with Ser Alliser about Samwell’s treatment. Or perhaps mention it to Lord Mormont. I am not quite sure why you have chosen me.”

“If you are the man, I believe you to be, then I expect you to watch over Samwell. Remind me, if you will, the vows you took when being knighted,” Aemon said.

Waymar felt a small bit of ire rising through him. Pushing it aside, he said, “In the name of the Warrior, I was charged to be brave. In the name of the Father, I was charged to be just. In the name of the Mother, I was charged to defend the young and innocent. Will that be enough or should I recite the rest?”

“Well, Ser Waymar. What do you make of your vows? Are you a true knight, brave, just, and not afraid to defend the innocent?” Waymar stayed silent, watching the maester’s blind eyes.

“I accept your request,” he said after a brief pause. Looking to the boy, he asked, “How long before he is up and training?”

“He shall be walking within a few days. When he will begin his training again, I’m not sure. His recovery will dictate when, and when he is fit again, I shall have you informed.”

Waymar nodded before sheepishly realizing the maester could not see it. “I shall be going now.” Waymar made to leave.

“I almost forgot,” Aemon said. Waymar turned back at the door. “I have noticed that you have been chaffing under your duties, ser. I can imagine that this is not what you were hoping to be doing when you first arrived.”

“It was not,” he admitted carefully.

"I see. I was of the mind that Samwell could help you in your duties. He knows his letters very well if he could read every book and scroll in his father's library. And he may help you with gathering information from the castle library."

“He very well could,” Waymar said. _Perhaps some good may come of this yet,_ he thought. _And besides,_ he continued, remembering the boy’s noble birth, _I may even come to think of him as a friend._ “Then, I hope the boy recovers as soon as possible.” Waymar turned to leave when a thought came back to him suddenly. “Maester Aemon. You … you haven’t received any ravens from Runestone, have you?” As soon as he asked, he felt like a complete fool.

“Runestone? No, I have not.” The maester’s eyes eerily found his again, and the knight could feel the penetrative gaze.

“Of course not. Forgive me, it was a foolish question,” Waymar apologized and left before the maester could say anything. He walked quickly away from the infirmary; too quickly even, as he almost collided with Clydas.

 _Fool!_ He exited the maester’s keep to the chorus of ravens screeching in the rookery above. Had there been a raven from Runestone, then he surely would have been informed. Waymar had known that but had failed to stop himself from asking. The Tower of Guards came before him quickly, and he entered without a falter in his steps, wrenching the door open and slamming it shut while doing so.

He rushed up the steps to his floor and his chambers. Shutting the door behind him, he grimaced at his foolishness and anger. _Fool,_ his mind whispered. _They are not your family anymore. You took your vows; the men of the Night’s Watch are the only family you have now. Andar, Robar, Ysilla, and your father have no obligation to write you,_ his mind worked to convince him, but his heart disagreed.

It had been nearly a year since they wrote, even then they’d only written when he’d written first. They had been short letters, congratulating him over taking his vows and little else. Andar, he could understand. His eldest brother had strongly disagreed with his decision to take the black, arguing that Waymar would be wasting his life on the Wall. Andar’s disagreement had led to a quarrel, and the quarrel had almost come to blows. When Waymar had set off from the Vale with his lord father, they still had not made up.

Robar had been more accepting, even teasing of the whole situation. The last Waymar had seen Robar, his brother had been making him solemnly promise to send back the heads of snarks and grumpkins as trophies. Ysilla had been kind and understand despite pleading with him to reconsider. Waymar’s father had been dismayed at first, yet had come to speak of his pride in Waymar. All that had made their silence more painful.

 _It is to be expected,_ his mind argued harshly. _They have their own duties and lives to live. Andar must be helping Father with various disputes. Robar must be busy winning glory. Ysilla must be the lady of Runestone, no easy feat, and one requiring her full attention._ Still, his heart lurched. He could not help missing his family.

“You’re most like to never see your family again, you know," Waymar remembered hearing. It had been Benjen Stark who'd uttered those words once when they'd been patrolling along the Wall. The First Ranger did not come often on patrols, but he'd come then.

“I know, my lord,” he said slightly defensive. “I am wondering why you brought that up.” Their party was just east of the Nightfort. They had ridden a hundred paces or so ahead so that they could speak in privacy.

“You remind me of myself. We are both third-born sons of old and proud houses. We have both taken the black, and we both share some similar features," the First Ranger japed. Waymar laughed. It was true, both Stark and Royce shared similar hair and eyes. “I remember my first years here. I thought it was too cold and too hard. I missed Winterfell, and I missed my brother dearly as well.” Waymar had stayed silent, listening to every word.

'Still, I think I am lucky in the sense that Winterfell is closer than Runestone. The Starks have always been good friends of the Night's Watch, and so there is always a reason to visit Winterfell. You, however … I hope you have made peace with the fact that you will most likely never see Runestone again, never see your family again."

Waymar nodded. He’d been aware that he was leaving for good when he set off for the Wall, he’d prepared himself for that fact, or so he had thought. But there was a league of difference, Waymar had found, between knowing he would miss something and actually missing it.

"Perhaps I should become a recruiter. A wandering crow. Then I may see Runestone again," he had japed. Benjen had laughed, crisp, and genial. Waymar still remembered how it had sounded.

“Do you ever write to Winterfell, my lord?” Waymar had asked.

“I do, but only on matters pertaining to the Watch,” he’d replied. “I would advise you not to write to them, Ser Waymar. It is better if you keep their memories only. So that on the bad days, you can think of them and smile again. But to write to them on personal matters will only bring pain. Writing on personal matters will only serve to remind you of the distance between yourself and them." _Easy for you to say, my lord,_ he had thought, slightly bitter. _You still see your brother, write to him even._

“You will have nieces and nephews that you will never know or see. But count that as a blessing, ser. It is harder to miss someone you’ve never met.” At that, the First Ranger had sounded so mournful that Waymar could only feel contrite for his earlier bitterness.

“I’m sorry,” Waymar had said. For what he had apologized for, he had not known.

“You are not to blame, ser,” Benjen had said, looking to his right toward the Wall. “You are not to blame.”

A knock rapped against his door, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Enter,” he called out. The door opened revealing Qhorin Halfhand, a tall, clean-shaven man with gray eyes and gray hair worn in a braid. “Did you find anything more in the castle library?” Waymar asked with due respect.

“No. I was with our Lord Steward. I was wondering if there are any literate stewards who could help us. He said he could not spare any,” Qhorin spoke slowly. Walking closer, he took a seat opposite Waymar. Long-limbed, tall, and solemn, Waymar thought that the Halfhand reminded him of a spear sitting as straight and rigid as he was. Though that thought did nothing to diminish the respect Waymar had for the man.

"I may have the answer to that question. When I went to return the maps to Maester Aemon, he showed me this boy, Samwell Tarly. He is a lord's son and so knows his letters. I believe the maester wishes to speak with Bowen Marsh over the boy's duties, but I'll speak with the man later myself, if the maester hasn't spoken with him already that is." He felt himself rambling for some reason and decided to shut his mouth.

“Good. There are too many scrolls in that library and not enough time to see through it all. But another pair of eyes will help. Shall I expect this Tarly on the morrow?" he asked.

“Ah. That is the problem, my lord. Uh … I mean Qhorin,” he stumbled over his words. The Halfhand had insisted that he was no lordling and that to call him Qhorin meant more to him. “My name is not ‘my lord’ or ‘ser’. I was named Qhorin by my mother, and Halfhand by my brothers. If you mean to call me, use one of those names,” Qhorin had told him.

“What is the problem?” he asked, smiling slightly to acknowledge Waymar’s mistake.

“The boy was beaten bloody during training. Tarly, he isn’t … a knight exactly. He’s a large boy, a fat boy. And he’s,” Waymar paused wondering whether it was his secret or not to tell Qhorin of his cowardliness. But then, he realized it wasn’t exactly a secret. “He’s a craven, Qhorin. An admitted one too … But that is no reason to beat the boy bloody,” he said angrily. “But, what else should I expect from a bunch of criminals; murderers, rapists, and thieves the whole lot of them. All of them following that old, bitter fool Thorne,” he shook his head in disgust.

“If I had not agreed to look after the boy, we might have found him beaten death one day,” Waymar finished darkly.

“How old is this boy?”

“A few years younger than me, I’d wager.”

Qhorin nodded. “You agreed to look after the boy? By whom?”

“Aye, by the maester. Aemon has taken an interest in the boy; he sees Tarly as a potential successor. What do you think, Qhorin?”

The Halfhand did not answer right away. Instead, he stared at Waymar, looking at him with a piercing gaze. Waymar stared straight back, unyielding. The Halfhand’s gaze was unsettling, but Waymar refused to let it show on his face instead he decided to wait until the Halfhand spoke.

“I think,” he started slowly, “only a fool judges someone before knowing them.” The answer was so unexpected that it left Waymar lost for words.

“The Lord Commander regards you often and highly, much of the high command does,” Qhorin continued. "I can see why; I can respect why. In you, they see the future of the Watch, and I agree with them. You are intelligent, honorable, brave with not only your sword, but with speaking your mind as well, I was told. You are of noble enough birth that shall you never become Lord Commander yourself one day I shall be truly shocked," he said.

“But for all your strengths, you are arrogant and ignorant, Ser Waymar,” Qhorin said with very little anger in his tone. “You forget that the Night’s Watch is a brotherhood, not an army. Our commanders do not sit in the rear and command from the safety of his knights and tents. We live, eat, fight, and die shoulder to shoulder. To lead men, you must know them. You must fight with them, dine with them, jape with them, respect them so that they may respect you,” Qhorin said sternly.

“Respect them so that they may respect me?” Waymar repeated, incredulous. “I am a knight of the ancient and noble house Royce. I am the son of Lord Bronze Yohn Royce. I should not be bowing to criminals so that they may obey my orders.”

“They do not see you as that. They see you as a rich, southern lordling with a rich sable cloak, rich gloves, rich garbs, rich castle-forged sword with a rich hilt." Waymar hand drifted to his sword hilt, which was bedecked with jewels. "They see you as an arrogant knight who scorns all the common-born brothers for officers like Thoren Smallwood or Jarman Buckwell. They see you as a bully.” The last accusation stung him so sharply that, for the second time, he was lost for words.

But then, he remembered Tarly’s bruised and battered body. “They are the bullies,” he insisted. “They beat that Tarly boy for what reason? Because he refused to fight? Because he was fat? Because he was a lordling?” Waymar asked angrily.

“There may have been jealousy involved, but I would not know. I was not there to bear witness. Neither were you, so judging them before acquiring the truth makes you look foolish, ser.”

“So, you think it fine for them to beat that boy?”

‘I did not say that. I am saying that you must be more aware of your actions and words, Ser Waymar. You must understand that as much as you may dislike or despise your brothers, animosity which is not fully deserved I would say, they are not your enemy. They are not your brothers to mock or belittle. They are your brothers to befriend and respect.”

Suddenly, he remembered what that boy Jon Snow had told him that cold, cold night atop the Wall. _All men make mistakes, Ser Waymar. Their mistakes shouldn’t define them._ “They’re criminals,” he said weakly.

“No,” Qhorin said. “They are our brothers. Did you know that Blane was an orphan boy recruited when he was of five or six name days?” Waymar shook his head. “Now he is one of the best rangers the Night’s Watch can boast of. Do you know Ulmer?”

“Aye,” he said. Ulmer was an old, stooped ranger who was skilled with a bow. “He was once a part of the Kingswood Brotherhood.”

"So, you know of his past. A man who once defied the Iron Throne itself and now serves the Night's Watch as honorably as can be served. If ever you need a man to feather an enemy or harass a band of raiders, Ulmer is that man.

“It is true, we serve in a time when the dishonorable cravens outnumber the honorable few, but the ones you believe to be dishonorable cravens can become the honorable man you trust. So long as you give them a chance. To lead men, you must know them,” he repeated.

 _To lead men, you must know them._ “My lord father used to say something similar,” Waymar said, remembering vaguely. “He used to say something akin to, ‘If you do not know your men, you may foolishly end up sending a forester to do a knight’s work.’” _How right you are, Father. How right you are._

Qhorin looked at the sun shining through the window. "It's almost time for lunch," he said, standing up. He looked to Waymar, "Will you be coming, ser?”

Waymar looked down, deep in thought. _Yes, I should. I may well one day lead these men; I should begin to know them._ Yet, he felt so uncertain. He felt nervous. He didn’t know what to do. “No,” he blurted out at last. “I … I have work to do. Perhaps at supper.” Waymar could barely look the Halfhand in the eyes.

“If you like,” Qhorin replied and left the room. _Fool,_ his mind said. _The real craven is you;_ he heard a different voice – was it Andar? – say. Forcibly, he pushed it to the side and picked up some reports to review.

Sometime later, his eyes drifted to his window, and he noticed for the first time that day that the Wall was weeping.

**The Lannister Imp**

The rain was bloody annoying.

It had been steadily falling for almost the entire day, and even now as a grey, wet dusk began to form it showed no signs of stopping.

They were south of the Twins and had passed Darry earlier that day. Unlike on his journey to the North with the King, Tyrion had neglected to stay at the Darry keep. Partly due to Ser Raymun’s detesting of Lannisters and partly due to his wish to make good time. 

His horse nickered as the rain strengthened. The halfman could share the beast’s plight. They had both ridden in the rain for too long. They had _all_ ridden in the rain for too long, he thought, looking back to check up on his men and Yoren.

There had been more of them at the start of the day. The kingsroad had become thick with travelers ever since they had passed the Twins. It was all for the Hand's Tourney, or so Tyrion heard. The rewards would be rich and the food plentiful, and it seemed as though nobility from all the kingdoms were coming to participate. As well as the smallfolk from all the kingdoms. For the past few days, Tyrion had seen free riders and knights, merchants, and traders with their wagon loads of goods, craftsmen, and whores and as well as the simple peasant wishing to witness a glimpse of the glory.

Tyrion had enjoyed riding among the people. Dicing with the men, laying with several whores, buying sweets from the merchants. Before today, the sun had been shining, the warmth had been comforting, and the traveling companions were plentiful. Today, however, the rain had driven them all away. Many had stopped by Darry after trudging through the mud and rain for much of the day. Some had even stopped earlier in some small, cramped inn near a small village. Only Tyrion's group had kept on going, and now he was wondering if he should have sought respite at Darry as well.

Yoren rode up to his side. “I hope you are to tell me that the rain will let up soon,” said Tyrion.

Yoren grunted and looked up at the sky. “Might be true on the morrow.”

Tyrion swore. “I believe there’s an inn nearby. Perchance you know of it?”

“Aye, I know of it.” He spat. “Inn at the crossroads. With all the travelers coming down the road, it’ll be full. Might be better to head towards the village nearby. Might be some rooms there.”

Tyrion knew of that village. It had a marketplace and a stony sept and many of its houses were painted white. It was also slightly south of the inn making it farther away; Tyrion wasn’t looking forward to spending more time in the rain.

“No. It’s farther away. And besides, if the inn doesn’t have any free rooms then there are always the stables.”

“Will m’lord be so willing to sleep among the horses?”

Tyrion fished out a gold dragon from his pocket. “Well, my lord father will not take it too kindly if he heard of me bedding down in the stables. So,” he flipped the coin in the air and caught it again. “To spare Lord Tywin, I think I shall manage to find some room. I am not a _large_ man, you can see.” He flashed a grin.

Yoren grunted. “As m’lord says.” He pulled his horse back a bit and rode in silence. Tyrion whistled to fill the silence. Ugly as he was and sour as he could be, Yoren wasn't a bad companion. He had many interesting stories to tell after thirty years wandering about the Seven Kingdoms for the Night's Watch, and he could make great, bawdy jokes when the mood hit him.

As the rain kept up its strength, Tyrion’s mind wandered to the Hand’s tourney. He wondered if Jaime would get his revenge against the Tyrell boy, Tyrion hoped so, or else his purse would be coming off many pounds lighter. Gaze trailing, he looked west, wondering if his lord father would attend. He doubted it. Lord Tywin was not a man for frivolity unless the occasion called for it. Besides, he'd recently traveled for Joffrey's name day tourney, and while his lord father was still a vigorous man, he could not see Lord Tywin bestirring himself for another tourney. Especially one in the honor of a Hand that was not himself.

The inn was soon upon them, and they quickly rode the horses into the stables, hoping for a respite from the rain. The others dismounted by themselves while Tyrion had to be helped. His legs were sore and cramping, but Tyrion had grown accustomed to riding for long lengths at a time; at the least the blisters had gone away.

“I see many horses here, m’lord. There might not be room,” Jyck said.

“Nonsense. This can be called a room, can it not? Don’t bother answering that. Go ahead and inform the innkeeper of our needs.” Jyck made a quick bow and rushed off. Tyrion and the rest followed behind. “Yoren. How long do you reckon it will take me to flash the coin before someone gives up their room?” Tyrion wryly asked.

“I’d give it two flicks of the coin.”

Tyrion laughed. “We shall see.” As he walked into the warm inn, away from the horses and rain and mud, he had a feeling that it would be a night well spent. Perhaps he would even find a whore to warm his bed.

**Aurane Waters**

Merek’s hands were caked in blood.

“What in the hells happened?” he asked, glancing up from the letter he was reading. He was sitting behind the mahogany desk in his cabin.

“Damned mad stowaway. Tried to gut me when I found him in the rig,” the first mate replied, wiping his hands with a handkerchief. The cloth absorbed the blood, turning the whole thing red in the blink of an eye.

Turning his attention back to the letter, he nonchalantly asked, “I take it he’s dead at the least?” They were on his ship, the _Silver Snake._ Three-masted and with over a hundred oars, it was the fastest galley in the Royal Fleet and Aurane's first and most prized ship. It was the same ship that'd carried him and his crew half a world away and back, winning him riches and glory.

“Aye, stabbed him in the belly myself. Right in the bowels. Would’ve let him moan in agony for the next few days before he died but he was bleeding all over the ship, so I told the boys to toss him overboard,” he explained grimly. “Food for the sharks.” Overboard was the middle of Blackwater bay. They were sailing to the spears of the merling king, or rather the edge of the spears considering the danger it posed to any and all ships. A stranded man was waiting for them there, a stranded man who was soon to become a dead man, he thought grimly.

“Any other troubles?” Aurane asked his first mate.

Putting aside the handkerchief, Merek rubbed his short, grey hair before saying, “No, none at all.” Almost gingerly, the greying man pulled out a chair opposite Aurane to sit on. Amusedly, the captain mused that Merek loved the ship more than anything in the world. After all, according to his first mate, he'd been born on the _Silver Snake_ , and he had proudly declared that he would die on the _Silver Snake._

He only nodded to the reply. “Salladhor Saan writes. Supposedly, Lord Stannis has his Onion Knight traversing from Free City to Free City inquiring after sellsword companies and sellsail pirates.” He gave a sly grin. “Whatever it is that has Lord Stannis so spooked, I’m half terrified by the sheer idea of it. For something to rattle that man …” Aurane shook his head in disbelief.

“Do you have any ideas?” Merek asked, strangely interested in Lord Stannis’ case.

Aurane leaned back against his chair. "Some," he confessed. "But in truth, I'm not too sure about them.” Some days past, Monford had written regarding the discreet gathering of Lord Stannis’ bannermen. There had been nothing of note, he’d written, simply that the Lord of Dragonstone had acquired a red shadow from Asshai, and had only asked to be informed of the affairs of Blackwater Bay and the capital. _Hardly topics that require such a discreet meeting._

He looked to his left where one of the three portholes in his cabin lay, letting in light sporadically as the water regularly lapped over and under the glass. He wondered further, thinking back to Lord Stannis’ departure occurring conveniently after Jon Arryn’s death. Jon Arryn had died for the truth he’d unveiled, yes, so did the Lord of Dragonstone fear the same fate as the previous Hand? Did he know the same truth Jon Arryn had known? Why hadn’t he done anything if he did? Seldom did these thoughts leave his head, and he feared that an ache would soon form if they continued to swirl round and round so, he decided to quit speculating. He needed the bigger picture, he knew, and he believed he had a way of getting it.

Silence had enveloped his cabin as Merek seemed to wait upon his pleasure. “Get me that bottle of rum in the cabinet. The one from the Summer Isles if you will, and then go and see to your duties. Inform me when we arrive at the spears,” he ordered. Dutifully, Merek did as told and even poured the rum into his cup, making sure not to spill any over the floor planks or the desk.

When his first mate had left, he began to draft a letter to the pirate, Salladhor Saan. His letter was long and lilting but only little of it fulfilled his real purpose. Most of the letter was dedicated to some gossip of the Narrow Sea and some advice regarding banking. As he wrote, Aurane’s mood lightened considerably as he reminisced on his relationship with the Lyseni. Lyseni pirates loved Aurane like a brother but the Lyseni magisters hated him more than was proper. _You would think I’d slaughtered their children and sailed off with their wives and concubines,_ he chuckled, _rather than simply sink and steal a few scores of their ships._ He chuckled at their pettiness.

Finishing, Aurane made a second, identical draft before sealing both. He sealed both letters with a pale gold wax before stamping a bright pink, eight-pointed star into the middle. It was far different from his personal seal but Aurane had long learned before that his seal was met with great interest and scrutiny from his enemies, and it would be best to not let this one slip into the hands of those who despised him.

Later, Merek came to him again, informing him of their arrival. By the time he had reached the deck, his crew had already prepared a boat. The rows of oars stood stiff and the sails carried no wind while the anchor had been dropped deep into the bay; the ship was anchored and would be waiting when he got back. Aurane took notice, as he left, that his men had already brought out their cards and rations of rum. Wistfully, he smiled, wishing he could join in on the fun and task Merek to handle it. But some things he just had to do himself. Along with a few trusted and tested men, he climbed into the boat before realizing Merek was missing.

“Where’s our first mate?” Aurane asked from his men.

“Taken ill, captain, or that’s what he says,” Lonny said. Aurane frowned. Merek had been missing more and more days due to ‘illness’ as he called it. He wondered if he should send him to a healer before commanding the boat to be lowered onto the bay.

Rowing, they cut through the rough tides and cut around the barren sea monts that highly resembled cracked and twisted spears. The tide was low, and as such many more of the rock formations rose to visibility over the water. But neither Aurane nor his men were fools and they knew that for every visible spear lurked a dozen more just beneath the waves, and so they politely exercised caution as they drifted deeper and deeper into the spears.

By the time they reached their destination, the sun was kissing the watery horizon. A feast for the Hand’s Tourney would be beginning soon, he realized apathetically. Their destination was a particularly large spear island with three peaks, the highest being fifty feet in height. Barren stone met the soles of his boots as he stepped off the boat, water slightly spraying onto him in the doing so. All of his men followed him off onto the grey rock; the boat had been tied securely.

Wasting no time, Aurane and his men searched the spear mont for the stranded castaway. Given the small size of the rock, they found him quickly, shriveled, shaking, and huddled in a small cove that was safe from the tide. “Get him up,” he gestured with his hand. Two of his men grabbed him roughly by his arms and brought him out into the fading sunlight.

In the light, the man looked as though he’d gone through an ordeal much crueler than the one he’d been handed. The castaway – whose name was Lenfer – had been dosed with poppy wine before being left here on Aurane’s orders. That had been three days ago. Three days without food or water or proper shelter. Three days of exposure had left the man peeling from sunburns, brown hair matted, his lips cracked, eyes pinkish, his color had turned a sickly pallor.

“Give him some water so he may speak without trouble.”

A skin of water was shoved to his face. Lenfer grappled with the cap before drinking like it was his first taste of water. “Cap … Captain A-Aurane … y-you … you’ve saved me,” he stuttered out hoarsely. His body was still tremulous in the open.

“Let us not get too ahead of ourselves, Lenfer. You are a dead man, through and through. I’m only here to ask several questions,” he said forebodingly. If it was possible, he began to tremble even more.

Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t … I don’t understand … W-Why … What have I-”

“Spare me,” he interrupted shortly. “I play enough games in King’s Landing, I won’t be bothered to play here.” When Lenfer kept shaking his head in denial and faux confusion, he continued. “You’re a traitor to me and Lord Stannis, Lenfer.” He leaned in closer to the man’s face. “You’re a spy, a sneak for Littlefinger.”

He froze in shock.

“You’ve been taking gold from Littlefinger and in exchange informing him of the comings and goings of the Royal Fleet.” _And me,_ he added in his head.

Suddenly, he started to weep. It was quite embarrassing truth be told to see the man weep his dry eyes out and have snot running down his face as he faced his death. Even more obscene was that he decided to start praying and apologizing with no hint of dignity, as though it would save his life. _To think, I have seen little slave boys endure gratuitous beatings and punishments with more pride,_ he thought, sadly remembering the slaves in Essos.

Sighing, Aurane stepped back and sat on a rock. Wind came sharply from the east, against his back, making his loose sleeves flutter violently. On the floor, Lenfer kept up his chorus of weeping and begging.

"Se-seven save me. Oh, gods, I can't … Please, captain … I-I …"

“Lenfer,” he put an edge to his voice to penetrate the pitiful wailing. “You’re a dead man but your son isn’t, neither is your sister nor her family.” At their mention, he seized up and quit his whimpering. “I could have them butchered in their sleep if I so wanted to. Or if I’m truly feeling merciless, I could even have them be brought out here to the spears and have them scattered across to smaller spear monts. You know the ones that drown with the high tide.” It was deathly quiet save for the water lapping against the rocks and the wind’s howling.

“Or you can answer my questions and your family will benefit. Your boy can become a squire or page someplace, and your sister will find herself left with a nice, fat pouch of gold. I can be a generous man, Lenfer, but only if you give me what I want,” he finished gravely.

The castaway trembled and seemed to want to start weeping and begging again but somehow, he managed to swallow it and take a deep, shaky breath. Looking at him with wet eyes, he asked, “You’ll take care of my boy and my sister?”

Aurane nodded. Lenfer accepted his answer and seemed to accept death as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. Something about knowing that their families would be safe and happy always granted peace of mind to dying men. The man took a few moments to gather himself before nodding. He began, “I can answer your questions. I can give you names too, of others who take money; Ruther, Jon, Daron, Mer-”

“I am not interested in names,” he interrupted once more. “I know all of them already. Just be quiet and answer when asked.” And Lenfer did so. As the sun fell further and further into the horizon, Aurane questioned him and the spy gave the best answers he could. A chill was beginning to blow in from the bay as he finished and stood from his rock. Aurane nodded to his men and they grabbed the man, quickly having him bent over the rock where he'd just been sitting. Lonny unsheathed his greatsword and raised it above his head, ready to take the traitor's head off.

“Any last words?” Aurane asked, standing opposite the executioner.

Lenfer let his tears fall again. “I’m sorry … I am. I was weak and … and Littlefinger paid well.” He twisted his head up to look up at him. “Please don’t punish my family, captain.” Aurane looked down hard into the man’s eyes. Grey-green eyes met teary, brown ones. Aurane wasn’t sure what to feel. Pity for the man’s fate? Was he meant to feel ill at the ugliness of this business? Anger at the man’s betrayal and his incessant weeping? He found he couldn’t decide.

“Your family is innocent, unlike you.” He nodded at Lonny and the sword descended. 

Only the sound of the sea crashing against the spear mont matched the _thud_ of Lenfer’s head meeting the ground. “Shall we leave the body?” Lonny asked.

“Toss it into the sea,” he said with a blank face. _Food for the fish,_ he left unsaid. “And be quick about it,” he ordered, anxious to leave this place.

* * *

“I’m terribly grieved to inform you that your brother has been killed by smugglers a few days past,” Aurane lied to Lenfer’s sister, Mali. It was an honorable lie, better she believed Lenfer died from doing his duty rather than being dealt with an execution.

Her arms dropped limply to her side and her lips quivered; tears were filling his eyes. Aurane looked away, deciding not to meet her gaze. Out the window was a street running off of the Street of Steel. The sky was steadily darkening but the street chatter was growing in noise by the hour. It was the final day of the Hand’s Tourney, and the final day of drunken revelry for the city.

Mali was trying her earnest to not break down and weep openly but she was fighting an uphill battle as tears rolled like rivulets down her cheeks. The children in the corner stopped playing with their wooden toys and stared at their mother in silence. They were scared, he knew. He’d been scared too when his brother, Monford, had begun to cry after being informed of their father’s death. It was always a queer sight for children to see their elders cry. Queer and scary.

The silence in the house was gnawing at him relentlessly. But Aurane did not mind the gnawing. It was good for him, he believed so. It reminded him of what he’d just done, not only to the men he’d killed but to the families that they’d left behind. It was good that he remembered. Better to keep grounded in the realities of his business lest he begin to close his eyes and hide away from all of the painful consequences that Aurane knew his playing of the game caused.

Quietly, the children stood from their corner and walked across to their mother, hugging and comforting her in a way that only children could. The gnawing turned to a stab wound deep into his heart. He could recall how they’d been merry and cheerful just before him entering their abode. Now all those happy moments were soured by him.

Aurane stood to give them some space and wondered over to the wooden toys dumped into a playful array. There were several painted knights with their wooden horses and wooden dolls with bright horsehair atop their heads. A model carrack was also there, and it was atop the toy ship that the other figurines stood. Expensive toys they were, considering Lenfer’s pay and the modest state of their home. Briefly, Aurane wondered whether it had been Littlefinger’s gold that had paid for the toys.

Mali’s weeping became louder as she struggled to cope with the children’s arms around her. He turned and walked back toward the table they’d been sitting at. “Mali,” he began. Her face was quite similar to that of her brother’s, he realized, looking down into her tearful, brown eyes. Aurane drew out a rather heavy pouch of gold. “This is his insurance and compensation. I’m afraid the bay has swept away his body.” She gave a strangled wail at the thought of Lenfer’s body decomposing at the bottom of the bay. He placed the pouch on the table.

“I believe your husband will be home soon. I will take my leave now. Give you time to grieve. My condolences to you and your family.”

Before he could turn, his eyes found the boy’s gaze. It was Lenfer’s son beyond a doubt; the resemblance was strong. The other children – a girl and boy – had much lighter hair.

“What is your name?” asked Aurane.

“Edmund,” the boy said quietly.

Aurane nodded. “A good name.” He looked to Mali, “I’ll have someone come down and discuss their futures. The boys could become good knights, and your daughter could find herself in a position as a handmaiden to some noble lady." There was no reply, and Mali did not visibly react but he knew she had heard.

With that, he left the once happy house and left the once happy family to their mourning.

King’s Landing was in complete contrast to the home he’d just left. There were celebrations and cheers and mummers and fools and whores and lots of drinking happening as the Hand’s Tourney came down from its high. Many a bastard would be bred by night’s end and disowned by the coming of the dawn. A juggler on stilts was performing for some children while another mummer was breathing fire from his mouth. But Aurane paid them little attention as he slipped through the crowd. No one recognized him in his dark cloak, scarf, and a wide-brimmed hat. _Well, almost no one,_ he remembered.

Disguise in place, Aurane slipped into a small, abandoned alley running off the street. There he stopped and leaned on a wall, waiting for the shadow that had been following him since the docks. Aurane was proven right as before long the skinny sneak entered the alley after him. Immediately, he pounced, pushing him against the opposite wall harshly and holding him there with a dagger at his throat.

No, at _her_ throat.

She was quite young, no older than twelve by Aurane’s eyes, and skinny as a spear with short, ratty hair. Aurane eased his grip but remained wary. He wondered if she was a whore at one of Littlefinger’s brothels, even though she was young, he knew Littlefinger catered to special wants as well. She was still, her eyes were hard and staring straight at him.

“Baelish?” he asked. She didn’t answer but her glare was enough. He wondered if she was the only shadow that Baelish had instructed to follow him around the city. Somehow, he doubted that. Aurane had never bothered to stop and threaten the ones that followed his steps. Most of the time, where Aurane went was not of such importance that he had to make an effort to conceal his movements. And whenever his destination was important enough to warrant secrecy, Aurane would always just lose his shadow through the winding streets and alleys.

This was the first time he’d ever bothered to stop an informant following him, and even now it was just to ensure the message went through.

Aurane twisted and searched for Mali’s home. Making sure that the little girl was aware of where his gaze was pointed at, he gave a two-fingered salute from his temple to the house. “Tell Baelish what he reaped,” he told her. Sheathing his dagger, he grabbed her shoulder and pushed her out of the alley and into the crowd before allowing himself to be swallowed up by the alley’s shadows.

He walked quickly, cloak billowing behind him. Passing from one alley to another, he quickly crossed an old decrepit courtyard with a cracked, dry fountain at its center. The alleys of King’s Landing were narrow and empty save for some sleeping drunks during the night. It twisted and snaked into many forks, some dead ends while others led out to streets; it could become a complete maze for unknowledgeable people, but not for Aurane. Eventually, he came onto a large, rowdy street which he followed for a little while before suddenly diving off into another quiet alleyway and rushing up a set of cobblestone steps. Up the steps, he turned a sharp right corner. Wondering whether the girl had listened to him, he paused and looked back down the way he’d come. Straining his ears, he listened adeptly for footsteps while on the lookout for any mysterious shadows. Nothing garnered his attention and his ears heard only drunken shouting and merry toasts. Convinced, he kept going.

His long and winding path carried on through the windows of ruined houses and across the shoddy rooftops of Flea Bottom. Twice on his path did Aurane pass goldcloaks, and both times he lost them through the twisted maze that this city could become at times. When he reached his destination, Aurane mused that he had crossed half of Flea Bottom at the least.

Hopping off the roof of some shack, Aurane landed gracefully onto the street and looked at the house. It was a modest building, just one story, and a few rooms. The door was old but painted an ugly yellow to make it appear new. Only one window serviced the house and it was placed to the right of the door. The panes were clear and open; warm light shone through them.

Knocking thrice, he entered without waiting. Inside everything was basked in the orange-red glows of the hearth; a pot filled with stew hung boiling over it, the tasty aroma coming from it made his stomach grumble. Aside from the table and chair to the side, nothing else was in the room. Two doors were at the wall opposite the door, one was closed while the other open but dark.

“Al?” Aurane called out.

“I heard you knock,” a voice called out from the dark room. Seconds later, Al came out holding a jar. “You should have waited before coming in. I almost flipped my knife straight at that girly face of yours.”

“I see no one has had the mind to shorten your tongue while I was gone.”

“Oh, someone tried,” he assured. Al placed down the jar and stirred the stew using the ladle.

“I take it he’s dead?” Aurane moved to the table and sat down on one of the three chairs. Unluckily, he happened to pick the one with uneven legs.

Al took a sniff of his stew before answering, “No. But I did bite off a few fingers.” He looked around. “I swore I put it somewhere here. As a trophy, you will understand. Mayhaps it is on the porch.”

“You don’t have a porch, Al,” he pointed out.

“Right. Thank you for explaining my house to me.” He snapped his fingers. “Now I remember! I hung it on Janos’ porch. He didn’t like that at all. Had his men sniffing around Flea Bottom for a few days,” he said all the while ladling the pot.

Despite the peculiarity, Aurane snorted. It was always like this with Al, he talked of things that were of little importance or just plain strange. Still, in spite of Al’s queer way of thinking and speaking, he was a very common-looking man with common height and common clothes and common hair. Even his way of speaking could be common if needed, and all of that made him a very good shadow.

“Has the Hand’s tourney gone well?” Aurane asked.

“It has. Plenty of violence and blood and gambling and future bastards seeded. Although, do not call it the Hand’s tourney in the presence of the Hand or else you will see a mythical, grey storm brewing in the eyes of that man. Like the ones they talk about in the _Seven-Pointed Scepter.”_

 _Seven-Pointed Star,_ he thought but didn’t bother to mention it. Al poured out all the saffron that he had gifted him from the jar and onto a plate. Placing the plate down, he took a spoon and, looking into the jar, scooped up the remaining little bits and added it the pot. Then, he filled the jar back up with the spice on the plate, scooped up the little bits on the plate, and added it to the pot. Aurane couldn't help but roll his eyes.

“Aren’t you going to say more?”

“Do you not want stew?”

Aurane looked down at the pot. His stomach betrayed him with a loud grumble. “I’ll wait for the stew.” _It will be good stew_ , he thought. Al had been a chef in some reputable inn for some time before working for him, and his meals were never disappointing.

Al filled two bowls and placed it on the table. He sat opposite Aurane and with his back to the door, they ate the stew with a loaf of bread still warm from the bakery, and for a few moments nothing else but the crackles of the hearth and the sound of chewing could be heard from the house.

“Will you get on with it then?” Aurane asked in between bites.

“Right. Might as well. Best not to keep the Silver Snake waiting.” Aurane paid no heed to the moniker. “Let me see. Well, the Hound won the tourney, but there was no final joust. You see the Kingslayer, the Tyrell boy, and the Clegane brothers were the finalists. They had to finish the joust on the second day, too many damn free riders and hedge knights in the first. Regardless, the Kingslayer lost to the Hound. Got into a bit of humiliation with his helmet afterward. The Tyrell boy beat the Mountain if you can believe it. Used a mare in heat to unruly the poor stallion who had to bear Gregor's weight. Does not matter a fig for the stallion though, Gregor cut off its head right in the track with everyone watching.”

“Looks like I missed quite the tourney.”

“That was the second thing he killed in the tourney actually, and he attempted four in all. The first was Ser Hugh, that patsy from the Vale. The second was, well, I just told you. The third was the Tyrell boy; tried to kill him straight after killing his horse. The Hound saved the boy though, and the Clegane brothers fought. The king stopped it in the end. In gratitude, Ser Loras named Sandor the winner.”

“Ser Hugh is dead?”

“Well, that is what happens when you have Gregor Clegane aiming his lance right at your poorly fastened gorget.”

Aurane chewed down the stew as he pondered about it all. Ser Hugh’s death meant the end of leads regarding Jon Arryn’s death. Perhaps, now the Lord Hand would stop his investigations, but Aurane already knew that to be a fool’s hope. Lord Stark was adamant about this investigation, and he would see it to the end.

“Go on.” He took another spoonful from the bowl.

“Well, Thoros of Myr won the melee, some Marcher boy called Anguy won the archery contest, beating out Ser Balon Swann and the Summer Isle exile. And there should be the wondrous closing feast happening right now.

“Oh, and there was a heated quarrel between the King and Queen at the first feast. She forbade him not to fight in the melee, in front of all his knights and lords and retainers. He roared like the wild boar that he is that he would not be told what to do by her. Made himself look like quite the fool when he didn’t fight the next morning. Though, I did hear that Lord Stark had spoken to him in the morning. Probably about the melee, but I was not there to eavesdrop, unfortunately."

“What else has Lord Stark been up to?”

“I followed him as he visited Tobho Mott, inquiring after Jon Arryn. He saw the bastard boy. Some of his men have been visiting the brothels searching for a specific whore, but I do not know her, and the guards have not succeeded so far." Finishing the sentence, he took a large spoonful from his bowl.

Aurane placed down his now-empty bowl. Leaning back into his chair, he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. "How fares the city?"

"Roaring," he answered. "Roaring with celebrations, roaring with crimes, and roaring with bets and new debts. You have seen all the revelry on your way here, I take it? Well, if we take that all and put it aside, you would see murders and burglaries and fires and rapes. I saw some woman’s head, right, floating in the rainbow pool at the Great Sept saying, ‘Hello, I have lost my body. Can you help me find it?’”

Aurane snorted. “This fever should calm with the tourney’s end. Slynt did poorly, didn’t he?”

“Entertaining is the right word. With Slynt you have the goldcloaks murdering murderers and stealing from thieves. It is as if you have to look down to see the sky and look up to see the sea.”

He shrugged. “You can send your thanks to Littlefinger.” Aurane stood from his chair while Al remained in his. “Do you know where Varys is?” The captain asked.

“He is waiting in the tunnel.”

“What?” There was a hatch opening to a tunnel that led to the Red Keep and around the city in the dark room that Al had come out of carrying his jar of spice. Aurane wondered why the spymaster had sought him out. Usually, it was Aurane who sought out Varys, and it made him uneasy knowing the eunuch’s presence.

“Proper eunuch, he is," he muttered without any malice. "I would have thought that he would have come up and said hello, eat some of my stew, ask about my day, but I suppose eunuchs have less dignity than bastards like yourself. You at least knocked."

Aurane ignored his comments. “How long has he been there?”

“I heard his muffled steps a little after you arrived. He is still waiting. I can hear him each time he shuffles his feet.” As always Al’s hearing left him impressed.

“Well, it’s best not to keep out Master of Whisperers waiting.” Aurane moved towards the dark room. “Keep your eyes and ears open, Al. And do not forget to shadow the Lannisters as well as the Starks.”

Al answered by giving a tired nod. Aurane moved into the room with the hatch. It was placed at a corner opposite the door, hidden beneath a rough-spun rug. Lifting the rug aside, he grabbed the latch and wrenched it open. He quickly climbed down a small ladder, making sure to close the hatch above him, and at the bottom found Varys seated on a crate; a torch on the wall provided the space with light.

“Varys. I thought you would be at the feast listening to whispers.”

“Spiders are never missed at feasts.” Varys smiled thinly. “There are matters we must speak of, captain,” he said seriously.

“Then let’s take a stroll. Al can still hear us.” Varys stood from the crate and they both walked silently through the tunnels lit by the torch in Varys’ hand. After walking some distance, Aurane broke the silence, saying, “Our king is safe, I hope.”

“The last I heard of him; he was. One of the matters at hand pertains to the Imp. He was kidnapped by Lady Catelyn at an inn on the kingsroad. Supposedly she is taking him back to Winterfell to await trial for conspiracy to assassinate her son. Oh, my little birds told me how dramatic and loud she was. She called upon her lord father's bannermen to aid her. Bracken and Whent and several free riders. The Freys were present but decided to not help. No doubt the Twins will be full with this talk and soon half the Riverlands and Westerlands shall be as well.” They reached a locked door. Varys took out a large ring spiraled with many keys and began to search for the right one.

“How foolish can that woman be?” he asked in slight shock. “This won’t go unanswered by Lord Tywin, or the Queen and her brother. She must surely know this.”

“She most likely does, though perhaps she does not fear the consequences. Or perhaps she believes that the good King Robert will protect her and her family.” Varys finally picked the right key and opened the door.

"This may well cause a war. Littlefinger may get what he wants, whatever it is that he wants anyway," Aurane said.

“How did your business with the sneak go?” Varys asked.

“Ugly, but necessary. It should deter Baelish from growing overbold with his bribes again.” They reached a fork where Varys headed to the left; Aurane followed him unhesitant.

“If war should break out, then the advantages may be on the Stark’s side,” Aurane said. “Even if Robert stays neutral, which is nigh impossible, Lord Stark is the Hand, his wife is a Tully, his wife's sister commands the Vale in her son's name. Any fighting between the Starks and the Lannisters will be fought on Tully land; that will surely bring both the Vale and the Riverlands into this conflict.

“The Stormlands and the Reach will follow Renly, and we both know his distaste for the queen. The Dornishmen would swallow poison rather than aid Lord Tywin. As rich as the Lannisters may be, they cannot hope to fight against the entire realm.” Another iron door came to view, but this time Varys did not waste time searching for the right key as it was open.

“You are correct in surmising the odds; however, you seem to forget that anything is possible in war. With Robert sitting on the Iron Throne, the Lannister hold no chance of victory. But if Robert were to die, then Joffrey would become King, Cersei his regent, and Lord Tywin his Hand. And then the houses fighting House Lannister would lose all protection from the Crown. They would be considered nothing more than rebels, and rebels often find a hard time gaining aid,” Varys said.

“If Robert were to die,” Aurane repeated. _Choice words,_ he thought. He stopped walking and Varys halted beside him. “Cersei is becoming impatient, isn’t she?”

Varys inclined his head.

“The melee,” Aurane realized. “She forbade him from partaking. Forbade. In front of all his knights and lords.”

“Al is as useful as ever,” Varys spoke.

“He was to die in the melee. In all the confusion and screaming and dust. No one would know who struck the killing blow, or if it was known then that man could be executed quickly before his tongue came loose.” Aurane laughed. “For all we mock Cersei for her vanity she certainly has a low cunning.”

“Yes, with Ned Stark investigating more and more closely and Cersei’s increasing fear of the Hand, the king will die soon, I’m afraid. And with the Lady Catelyn holding the Imp hostage, war is inevitable rather than simply possible.”

Aurane frowned. “We must delay this, then. At all costs. We are not yet ready to sweep the kingdoms. Our power and influence are not enough. The Crown is yet too secure.”

“I disagree,” the eunuch said baldly. “If war is to break, which it will, then we should prolong it as long as possible. Stretch the armies of Westeros thin, weaken the Lannisters, and all the other houses that could stand in our way. Let the wolf and the lion beat and bloody each other, let the Tyrells scheme and Stannis brood. Let Dorne simmer and the Ironborn sow chaos.

“Let the fields and forests bath in blood and famine, brigands, and corruption to spread. Let the people of Westeros cry out for a savior to end their worries and their lords’ wars, and then, when the people are breaking, do we let our king arrive.

“He’ll land on the shores of Westeros just as Aegon did three hundred years ago. He’ll bring with him food and legitimacy and an army capable of putting all the wrongs to right. With all the houses weak from war, no one will be able to oppose him, and when they gain back their strength, no house will dare rebel against the king who brought peace and prosperity to Westeros after a time of war and corruption.”

Aurane stared at Varys. “You seem to have had this idea for quite a while,” he said accusingly.

“Of course,” Varys giggled. “The game of thrones shifts ever so rapidly. Spiders must plan ahead if they wish to survive.”

Aurane was not amused. “Is that all? Or is there more to discuss?”

“No. I must get going. I needs must speak with Lord Stark before the night ends.”

“Why?”

“To inform him of the assassination plot. It would be very improper for me to not do so.”

An idea came to him suddenly, and he couldn’t help but speak his mind. “Let me go instead.” They had reached a large circular room with a rounded ceiling. Eight doorways were leading to eight tunnels that led all over the city. "This new plan of yours, it would require us to conquer the kingdoms while they're weak from war. But there is a slight flaw when it comes to the North: simply put, the North is too vast and unruly to conquer in the same vein as the Reach or the Westerlands. And even if we were to succeed, we may end up with another Dornish Summer, and I have no intention of sacrificing fifty thousand men to simply hold the North.

“No. Let me speak to Ned Stark. Let me offer my help. If he accepts, I may be able to foster goodwill between us, and goodwill seems to me, to be the quickest and most peaceful way to keep the North in line,” Aurane finished explaining.

Varys thought on it. “Will goodwill be enough, however? The North has always been distant from the Iron Throne, and some Northmen still foster ill will towards the Targaryens for subjugating them.”

“It may not be enough. But to not try is folly.”

Varys thought on it more. “Very well. I trust you to know the way from here,” he said nodding towards the tunnels.

“Aye, I do.”

“Then take this,” Varys handed him the torch. “I will find another. Good luck to you, captain. Oh, and do not mention the Imp’s kidnapping to him, he will know soon enough.”

Aurane nodded and pulled up his scarf and put on his wide-brimmed hat before they both went their separate ways. Varys down a tunnel to the left, Aurane down the tunnel straight ahead. As he mapped his way through the tunnels and under the city, his mind pondered on Varys' new plan. It was sensible and ruthless, just like every other one of Varys' plans had been. But it made him uneasy to realize that his plans were always shifting.

Originally, the plan to restore the Targaryens to the throne had been to slowly divide the alliances that held the realm together. Arryn, Stark, Tully, Lannister, and Baratheon were the houses that kept the kingdoms from splintering and breaking away like in the days before the Conquest. Yet, despite them being essential to Robert’s reign, there existed a tension that Varys had believed could be exploited. The tension came from their conflicting personalities. Tywin Lannister’s grasping nature, and the Sack of King's Landing, had left him distrusted by the other great lords. Ned Stark, however honorable and loyal he was, was far removed in the North. Hoster Tully had his problems with half the riverlords being loyalists. Robert Baratheon had begun to neglect the affairs of the realm, and take to whoring and drinking. All the burden had fallen on Jon Arryn who was no longer a young man, and despite doing an amicable job, he'd slipped many times and allowed the Crown's foundations to crack.

Varys had wished to exploit this to accomplish an internal conflict within the alliance. All the while, Varys had been planning to raise up the Reach and Dorne, along with any other loyalist houses to take back the throne from a distracted king. Still, this plan was never carried out to the full extent for reasons unknown to Aurane. He'd been a young lad during those years, and as such he had not been wholly involved with all the scheming.

Eventually, the plan shifted all together with the Greyjoy Rebellion, and Robert’s victory cementing his hold. Now with Robert beloved by much of the realm, Varys had decided to begin chipping away at the Crown itself. The plan relied on pushing the realm more and more into debt, pushing Robert more and more into whoring and drinking, pushing the animosity between the queen and half the court to grow. Robert was loved, he needed to be shamed; the court was friendly, it needed to be divided; the Crown’s foundations were rock solid, they needed to be teetering.

For this plan to be accomplished, however, Aegon needed to be a grown man with a wife and allies aplenty. He needed to show stability not madness, wealth not debt, justice not corruption. It would take years, had taken years to cultivate the idea to fruition. Aurane’s voyage had brought the wealth and influence necessary. Time and proper education had brought Aegon maturity, wit, and skill at arms and politics. Years of pushing and manipulating had brought King’s Landing and the Crown to their current state, and the secrets Varys had learned along the way would go far in bringing the Baratheon dynasty low. In a year or two’s time, Aegon would secretly marry from an influential family in Westeros, and perhaps Aurane himself would marry into a house to spread their influence. Everything was falling finely into place.

And the spider wished to change it.

Objectively thinking, it was entirely sensible. War across the realm would disrupt their current plans, and so shifting the moves was prudent. Yet, when he thought of it, it irritated him slightly. The plan was working, and war could possibly be avoided with correct moves, but the spider wished for the plan to shift. And at the end of the day, the spider made them all dance to his wish across his web.

During his pondering, Aurane had reached the Tower of the Hand through the tunnels. The tunnels were long and confusing to those who had never walked through it before. But Aurane had walked through them enough not to get lost, and he was grateful for that knowledge. Many tunnels led on for miles before stopping at a dead end, and there were even more tunnels that simply looped back around, creating a circle of sorts. To reach the Tower of the Hand, he'd taken many turns and climbed up and down quite a few ladders. Eventually, he noticed the ceiling growing lower and lower, he knew that he'd arrived.

Aurane went up the tower and towards the bedchambers, wondering if Ned Stark had arrived from the feast yet. Peeking through a small peephole that was nearly unfindable from the interior of the room, he saw the Lord Hand sitting on his bed, examining a blade. _Not too early,_ he thought. _Good._

Instead of popping out from the hearth, he decided to descend to the middle of the steps and exit from there. Once out of the tunnels, he ascended the steps as any other lord or petitioner would do.

"Who goes there?" one of the two posted guards asked.

"A man, come to see the Lord Hand," he answered in rougher voice than his own.

“Your name?” They glared at his concealed face, trying to discern who he was.

“Is not important. I must speak to the Lord Hand.”

The two guards looked at each with wary eyes. “Stay here,” the one who first called out said. “I will inform Lord Stark.”

While he waited, the guard left behind stared at him with open distrust, a slightly shaking hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Aurane almost smirked. He was armed with only a hidden dagger, yet if words came to blows, he had full confidence he would win.

Before the guard’s nerve snapped, the other one returned. “M’lord Stark will see you.”

Aurane inclined his head before smoothly following behind the guard and into the chamber.

“Who are you?” Ned Stark asked as soon as he stepped in.

“A friend,” he replied in the same rough voice. “We must speak alone, Lord Stark.”

Curiosity seemed to be stronger than caution as the lord dismissed his guard – Harwin was his name – after barely a moment’s worth of pause. _Curiosity or foolish sense._

When the door shut behind him, Aurane lowered the scarf and took off his hat to showcase his silver hair.

 _“Captain Aurane?”_ Stark said in astonishment.

“Lord Stark,” he greeted back before seating himself. “Might I trouble you for a cup of wine?”

Stark filled two cups, before handing him one. “Your disguise is certainly effective. I would not have recognized you had I walked within a foot of you.”

“Yes, well that was my hope. When I was young, a mummers’ troupe would sporadically dock at Driftmark for supplies or a show. I used to befriend the children in the troupe, and they used to teach me simple tricks like disguising myself for one,” he said truthfully. That mummers’ troupe still came by from time to time, but Aurane was usually too busy to fool around with them again. _Too busy, and too old._

He took a sip of the wine, finding it to be quite choice. “How did you get past my other guards?” Stark asked.

"There are many servant passageways and narrow corridors that have gone to rot and relic since the Rebellion, my lord." Aurane shrugged. "I shan't waste your time, my lord. Your fat fool of a friend was almost killed today." His voice had gone sharp. "The king was supposed to die in the melee, he has you to thank for saving him. They aren't happy of course." He took another generous sip.

“Who?”

Aurane swiveled the wine around in his mouth before answering. “Must I tell you, or do you already know?”

“The Lannisters,” Stark said. “The queen, but no . . . I will not believe that, not even of Cersei. She asked him not to fight!”

“She _forbade_ him from fighting. In front of every one of his knights, lords, and retainers. I trust you can see the difference, Lord Stark.”

Stark frowned, and he could see the suspicion growing in the man's grey eyes. "How are you so aware? By your own missive, you sent to the small council, you were out on Blackwater Bay dealing with smugglers."

“And who’s to prove, aside from that slip of paper, that I actually left the city?” he challenged. “You, my lord, did not recognize me when I entered this chamber. But others may have seen through this mask.” He shrugged. “Why would anyone look for a man who has left the city?” Aurane was lying through his teeth, but Stark was not aware of that. For the captain, there had been two options. Tell the truth and let it slip that he had informants of his own, or lie about leaving the city in hopes that Stark would find it less despicable. _Damned if I do, damned if I don’t._

Stark bristled. “So, you knew of this plot, and did nothing? Said nothing?”

Despite trying not to, Aurane laughed. "Why, of course, I did nothing,” he said, smiling. “Haven’t you heard of the king’s distaste for me? If I had gone to the king speaking of assassination plots and betrayals, he would doubtless have me thrown in the Black Cells for ‘threatening’ him.”

“You could have come to me earlier.”

"Aye, I did consider doing so, but then two thoughts ran past me. One: why would Lord Stark trust the word of an admitted liar? After all, I was not in the city."

“Do you take me for such a fool that I would take lightly any attempts to assassinate the king?”

 _No. Not a fool,_ he thought sadly, _but terribly naïve._ Instead of putting those thoughts to word, he smiled. “And I come to my second thought: what would the king do after hearing of his peril?”

Stark paused, and Aurane knew he had him. “He would have damned them all, and fought anyway, to show he did not fear them.”

Aurane inclined his head. “I must say that I finally understand why the queen fears you so much. You, Lord Stark, are Robert’s last true friend. You are the only man who will never betray Robert, I can see that now. And you are also the only man Robert may never give over to execute. No matter the costs.”

“Surely, Robert has other loyal friends,” he protested. “His brothers, his knights–”

“Come, Lord Stark,” he interrupted before the lord could begin rambling. “I do not take you for a fool. Half the court is filled with flatterers only interested in dressing well and bowing properly before the king. The other half either belongs to the Lannister or are out for themselves. The queen herself was involved in a plot to kill Robert, so do not expect loyalty there. You mention his brothers, but I do not trust their intentions. They have aspirations of their own, and Robert has never shown them quite enough love for them to reciprocate. Even among the small council, Selmy loves his honor, Pycelle loves his office, and Littlefinger loves only himself.”

“The Kingsguard–”

"– have gone to rot and relic like those passageways I used to get here. Ser Meryn and Ser Boros are the queen’s creatures. Ser Jaime is the queen’s brother while the rest may as well be replaced by the strawmen from the yard for all the protection and loyalty they provide. Only Selmy is true, and he is _old._ ” Seeing the reaction on Stark’s face, he continued, “Yes, my lord. The problems at court lay far beyond just the Crown’s debt.”

“Robert must be told,” Stark said. “If what you say, if even a part of it, is true, the king must know.”

Absentmindedly, Aurane had forgotten that the wine cup was still in his hand. Draining it in one gulp, he placed it on a table before replying. “Jon Arryn was of the same opinion, although he knew he needed proof beforehand.” Aurane sighed. “And now he’s dead, chasing evidence.”

“He confided in you?” Stark asked.

"Not truly," he grimaced. "We spoke of these matters once only; several moons turn before he died. I was there to discuss some personal trade matters in the Vale when I noticed how haggard he appeared. Jon Arryn was Hand ever since Robert was crowned, and having to confront these problems and watch as they only grew and grew took a toll on him. I offered him my advice and even an alliance." Aurane looked at the lord. "I am a very wealthy man, Lord Stark, and I have numerous friends on both sides of the Narrow Sea. But he declined my offers. Unfortunately, Jon Arryn only ever listened to me when forced to."

Stark stared at him for a moment. “I recall now, Jon once wrote me, I believe it was during your war in the Stepstones. He wrote that you offered sound advice, but for an unshakable reason, he could not bring himself to trust you. I have always wondered then why you were given this rank even with your many exploits.”

Aurane could have laughed. _Oh, how the old man was right not to trust me._ He could have helped Jon Arryn at that time, he knew, but only because their interests had aligned. It had not been for goodwill as the previous Hand had invested too much into Robert to eventually accept Aegon as his king.

“Trust,” he repeated. “I can understand why he would not trust me. Did you know, Lord Stark that a few years after returning from my voyage east, I applied for a high-ranking position in the Royal Fleet.” Aurane looked at Stark who shook his head. “Aye. My reasoning then, and my reasoning still, is that the Velaryons have nearly always been the Master of Ships to the Iron Throne. I may not be a Velaryon, but I share my brother’s blood, and I wear the colors of Driftmark.

“I did not apply for Master of Ships, no, I am not that foolish. But it was a high-ranking position nonetheless. My thinking was that after many years, after Joffrey came to the throne, or Stannis retired, Velaryon blood would hold that rank once more. I was well aware that my presence was met with suspicion from Robert and the small council. Suspicion that was well warranted, I suppose, given my family’s history of affiliating with the Targaryens.” At the name of Targaryen, Stark shifted.

“So, to get them to accept, I offered some concessions. A healthy donation to the Crown’s treasury, new ships to the Royal Fleet, improved contacts with certain Essosi merchants, knowledge of the bay which I could use to flush out smuggling and piracy. I was refused, however. I thought, well it is not the end of the world, perhaps I could make another case in a few years’ time.

“This all occurred only a little time before the conflict in the Stepstones and Lys began. I’m sure you know the tale; Lys had a strong grasp over the Stepstones from where their taxes on ships began to grow insulting. I was not the only one insulted, I knew of petitioners making their way to the king and Hand, of the Iron Bank meeting with the Sealord, and the magisters of Pentos gathering to debate. The last straw leading to war however came when two of my ships returning from Oldtown disappeared. I learned quickly that it was the Lyseni’s fault for my ships had refused to stop for inspection or some other bile they tried to feed me.

"I was wroth, and I grew even angrier when I received a letter from Jon Arryn, informing me that they were attempting to find a peaceful resolution with Lys and that I should not be hasty in my actions.” Aurane snorted. “I wrote back immediately, warning him not to deal with the Lyseni. ‘They are arrogant from winning. And they are backed by Volantis, Tyrosh, and even Myr to a certain extent. They will not fear you enough to respect you,’ I wrote. I warned him that he would not find a deal worth pursuing and that only war would bring them to heel, but I only received a short missive, thanking me for my advice, and that the Crown would be pursuing a different route to the one I suggested.

“So, I gathered up all my ships, called in every favor I had earned, borrowed several loans to hire disgruntled pirates. Eventually, the Braavosi and Pentoshi sent aid as well as Oldtown, and many a hedge knight, second sons of lords, and even some lords themselves joined me, but at the beginning, I had no aid. I set off to war by myself. Within a year and a half, I had broken their hold on the Stepstones and sunk and stolen much of their fleet. By the end of the war, I was poised to sack Lys itself. But by then, Volantis and Tyrosh had begun stirring. In the beginning, they had not taken me seriously, no one had. But now they were preparing their fleets and soldiers.

"To tell the truth, I was not fazed when the news arrived of their preparation. My ships and men were tested and true. Braavos and Pentos were still in support of me, and I was prepared to carry on the war. However, I did not realize with myself being a Westerosi and with many lords, heirs, and lordlings participating in the war, that this was becoming a problem for the Iron Throne. Trade had stalled during the war, and since the Crown had declared neutrality, they were struggling to create any meaningful business. That along with rumors of Volantis contemplating declaring war on Westeros if I sacked Lys brought Jon Arryn to hold peace talks.

"So now I answer your question: why did they give me the rank of second in command? Because that was my price for not sacking Lys and instigating a war with half of the Free Cities. It was not because the smallfolk were smitten with my tale and glory. It was the concession the Crown gave me in return for me not bringing war to the shores of Westeros."

Silence reigned after Aurane finished speaking. Ned Stark had refilled his cup while he'd been talking, and he took a generous gulp of wine to soothe his throat.

“That is quite the tale.”

“It is not widely known. Most believe that they gave me the position because of my prowess, glory, or wealth,” he said. “I told Jon Arryn, warned him even, that Lys would not offer fair terms in the beginning. I later learned that what I said came true, the Lyseni envoys refused every attempt at negotiation. They were only willing to sign a peace treaty with the terms set by their conclave which was quite insulting. I warned Jon Arryn in the beginning, he refused to listen, but by the end, he did end up listening.”

“Do you know how Jon Arryn died?”

A thin smile graced his lips. “I was wondering if you would ask that.” A pause stretched between them. “The tears of Lys,” he said. “A colorless, odorless poison that leaves the victim appearing to die from natural illness.”

“Who gave him the poison?”

To that, Aurane shrugged. “There were many who shared meat and mead with him, my lord. It could have been any one of them.” He could see the frustration in the lord’s face. “There was one I truly suspect. All he was, he owed to Jon Arryn. After Lysa fled to the Eyrie following her husband’s death, he stayed and prospered even more,” he said, thinking of Littlefinger. “Unfortunately, he was not ready for the hardships in life, and he was so young. Still,” he looked Stark right in the eyes, “I believe the Mountain has killed far younger than him,” he finished sharply.

“The squire.” Stark looked half sick. “Why? Why now? Jon Arryn had been Hand for fourteen years. What was he doing that they had to kill him?”

“Chasing evidence,” he repeated.

Aurane stood from his chair, Ned Stark had been standing the entire time. “I have taken enough of your time, my lord. I shall leave you now with a proposition and some advice. Jon Arryn was killed for asking questions, my lord. Take heed, the Lannisters will not fear to poison you if they have grown bold enough to plot against the king. Use a taster, my lord, to deter them. And be more secretive in your questionings. Keep your guards closer to you. Right now, you are playing the game like a drunkard rolling dice.” Stark attempted to interrupt, but Aurane cut over him. “You may or may not heed my advice, my lord. That is up to you. But I beg you, I advised Jon Arryn the same, he declined, and now he is dead.

“Now I offer you my help. Do not be too shy or too prideful not to come to me. We share common interests, you and I. For the time being, I am interested in Robert staying on the throne. I am also interested in the Lannisters being brought to heel. You've seen how they've infested the court; I trust? We share common interests, my lord. Now is not the time to mistrust each other, especially with the queen growing bolder.”

Stark stared with suspicion coloring his grey eyes. “You speak of Joffrey coming to the throne, and you benefit from it. Now you speak of Robert staying alive and somehow you would benefit from that too?"

 _So not that naïve,_ he thought. _There may be hope yet._ “There’s this saying. War brings business, but peace brings profit. Robert staying on the throne brings peace to the realm, and I am interested in the profit I collect from trade and such. And besides,” he smiled. “In Stannis’ absence, I do command the Royal Fleet. So perhaps Joffrey is not required for me to do so.”

He stepped closer to the door and turned. "I bid you consider my offer. I can help you in many ways, Lord Stark." He put on his hat and pulled up his scarf before slipping the door. He brushed past the guards quickly and entered back into the tunnels without anyone seeing. Once inside, he breathed more easily. All at once, it seemed, the toils of the day caught up to him. He sagged a bit, body tired and head aching slightly.

 _I had a man executed yesterday. And today, I brought the news to his family myself._ His eyes stung from being awake for too long, but it was his heart that troubled him the most as he remembered the children and the woman's weeping. Aurane could do with some comfort, he decided, so his legs took him out of the Red Keep, but not to the docks. Instead, he wandered towards the Street of Silk. More specifically, Chataya's. He wasn't too interested in fucking Marei tonight, but he still wanted Marei’s arms around him as he drifted to sleep. He wanted the comfort that she could provide him.

Once he reached there, he was surprised to hear wailing and several goldcloaks in the brothel. Realizing that something was wrong, he removed his disguise to not appear suspicious. "What happened here?" Aurane asked one of the goldcloaks standing outside.

“That’s none of your concern, oh” the watchman saw his hair and recognized him. “Ahh, captain Aurane.”

“What happened here?” he repeated.

"There was a murder," a different goldcloak answered. This one was taller than the first and holding a lantern in hand. “A whore got her throat slashed by an assailant.”

Aurane brushed past them and walked into the brothel. There he saw the scene. Several other whores were weeping and wailing. Chataya herself was speaking to an officer stoically. But his eye caught the victim. She had green eyes and porcelain skin and white-gold hair that had some blood in it. It was Marei, and Aurane could feel his heart grow cold. Tears threatened to leak out of his eyes, but he blinked it away and turned to exit.

Outside, he turned to the goldcloak that had answered him. “Have they caught the murderer?” he asked, oddly quietly.

"Aye. We found the body in that alleyway with a crossbow bolt through her eye. Murderer got murdered. We took some of the girls out to make sure if that was the one, they answered yes."

Aurane walked into the alley and saw a body lying in the middle of it. He made his way over. Grabbing the lantern from the goldcloak’s hand, he held it closer to the assailant’s face. It was the sneak for Littlefinger who had followed him earlier that night. The one that he’d stopped and sent on her way. _An eye for an eye,_ he realized. _Kill my man, and I kill someone close to you,_ he could hear Littlefinger saying. Aurane could have laughed, he could have cried, he could have grown wroth.

But the only thing that came to mind was, _Littlefinger never leaves a trail,_ he thought, looking at the dead little girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that took a while, 20k words whereas 10k is more my usual. I blame the Aurane chapter chiefly for this. It just grew and grew and grew until it was half the chapter itself. I debated halving it, but without Aurane there isn't much meat to the chapter in my opinion so in it stays.
> 
> I don't know when the next chapter will be. Hopefully within the month.
> 
> Still looking for a beta if anyone is interested.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly book based.
> 
> There will be additional tags added, Jon and Robb and etc will get their partners and yada yada yada.
> 
> This is unbeta'd so I'm sorry for any grammatical errors.


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